So Dark And Bright
by SilverStarsAndMoons
Summary: AU fic with Mark/Addison. Mark and Addison attend marriage counselling after four miscarriages. Angsty fic. Review love is always appreciated. It would brighten up my otherwise dull month. COMPLETE - thanks for all the reviews, everyone!
1. Chapter 1

**On The Edge of Summer**

Do you remember what it's like to lose something you thought was a sure thing? Do you remember that stomach-dropping feeling; that gut-wrenching conviction that although this opportunity might come around again, it's never going to be the same as it was right now?

It was easy to rely on it; to count your chickens before they hatch. No one told you that the biological certainty is never certain. No one told you that some people's bodies aren't made for this. And now you're staring at the situation like you would stare through water at the sun – it's not real. It's all a dream. Isn't it?

_Well, it's you and it's me_

_Me with a drink in my hand_

_The ice is tinkling like a wind chime_

_And late afternoon settles over the land_

_And you're talking about things_

_Interesting just slightly_

_And things that matter too much_

_To say any way but lightly_

Everything's sharp and bright; too bright for two AM. It starts with the cramping; you're awakened suddenly and try to ignore it. Your arms curl around your abdomen; you push back the scientific, clinical thoughts and focus on holding it there; keeping your baby inside where you can protect her. This time, you know it's a girl. This time, you've seen her face in your dreams, and the little cry that escapes your lips is like a warning to God: don't do this again. Please, if you're merciful, don't do this again.

Mark is asleep beside you. His arms are twined behind his head; his eyes are closed. He's been with you through the other three, and you've watched the lines around his eyes deepen at every loss. You've got a drowning certainty that this fourth will just about break him. It makes you hope against hope that this isn't going to be the fourth time.

The first time, he was overjoyed. He placed his hands on your still-flat abdomen and kissed it, just above your navel, whispering to the glow inside, telling the baby all his hopes and dreams. You both had made the mistake of calling the Shepherd family; of telling a few close friends. Of buying into the overjoyed blind faith that having a baby brings to otherwise rational people. Maybe the first one was the worst, because three months in, when you ended up in the ER at four in the morning with blood streaming down the insides of your legs, you hadn't been able to stop crying and he had to gulp back his own tears in order to take care of you.

The second time, you were more cautious. You didn't tell anyone but Naomi and Derek, vowing that when the three-month mark passed, you would start to redecorate the spare room and send out the joyful news to everyone. You didn't make it past the second month. This time, Mark stroked your hair as you lay on your bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, tears streaming into your flaming red locks.

It seems impossible that there could have been a third time. You both weren't that lucky and you sure as hell didn't think there could be a third time. More than a year had passed since the second miscarriage; you tentatively suggested it one night after a long day in the OR where you'd lost twins and Mark had lost his facelift patient to an anesthesia problem. The sex that night had been born out of need; maybe it didn't matter if you lost people if you could make one to come home to. One to live for on days like these.

It had worked and the test turned blue and you had said nothing to anyone, not even Naomi and Derek. It was like the secret that you both shared alone; his covert glances at your belly; the way you would brush up against him and he would place a hand on your abdomen. No one knew and it was so beautiful to share the beautiful news. Maybe you had been too cocky before. Maybe, you had tempted Fate a little too much.

Maybe, it just wasn't meant to be. You lost it the evening before you would have marked the third month of the pregnancy. It could have been the anticipation, but the red blood down your legs was more like a fucking curse. That night, Mark cried in the chair facing the window of your bedroom while you curled into a ball in bed and rode the waves of cramps as a punishment for not being able to be a good mother; no, not even when you're trying to provide a safe haven for this baby you both want so much.

_Did you know you're so beautiful?_

_On the edge of summer_

_That years from now_

_I'll cry to remember_

_How very close you were_

_Knowing this will I reach for you_

_Knowing this will I reach for you_

_The way you want me to._

When you missed your period, you chalked it up to stress. After three miscarriages, you didn't ever want to hear the word "pregnancy" in relation to yourself again, and certainly not a bare six months after the last one. Mark and you were on the rocks, anyway; three miscarriages will do that to a marriage. He started to smile at young nurses and you started to dig your nails into the palms of your hands just to feel something other than empty resignation. You'd had sex one night after a fight laced with vodka; he'd yelled at you for being cold and you'd screamed at him for not being able to help you with anything. You'd fallen into bed and the sex had been incredible; you hadn't noticed the blood trickling from his shoulder or the dark bruises on the curve of the hip bone under your ivory skin. It had been an instantaneous miracle of an orgasm. You'd fallen into delicious sleep; the first good sleep you'd had in six months.

And then the stick turned blue.

When you saw it, your first thought was why. Why a fourth time? Why, after everything? So this child maybe never had a chance; you were defeated enough to not even tell Mark about this pregnancy. He's been more attentive than Derek, but back-to-back surgeries have made him blind to anything but your smile lately, and he hasn't noticed that it's been two months and your belly isn't as flat anymore.

_Well, it's time to be wise_

_Wise in the ways of the heart_

_To come out from under the covers_

_This voluntary state of apart_

_From the faces, oasis_

_In this Sahara of sorrow_

_These graces that hold me_

_It's from you that I borrowed._

When the bleeding starts, you're so devastated that you can't stop your gag reflex from taking over. You heave towards the bathroom, but you don't quite make it and the vomit mixes with the first thick drops of blood spotting the white tile. You can't hold it; the pain is too great, and you kneel on the bathroom floor with a bloody hand on the edge of the toilet as the life slithers out of you and onto the floor. Isn't it natural that you would do more than mourn? It's so painful – it's like your heart is bleeding out instead of your baby.

When he wakes up, you're white and shaking and the floor is a mess. Without a word, he takes you in his arms and supports you, helping you to squat over the toilet and cleaning up the mess. He can tell by the way that you're breathing that this one will be a trip to the ER. When the ambulance arrives twenty minutes later, you pass out in his arms.

_Did you know you're so beautiful?_

_On the edge of summer_

_That years from now_

_I'll cry to remember_

_How very close you were_

_Knowing this will I reach for you_

_Knowing this will I reach for you_

_The way you want me to._

Lying in the white hospital bed, he gazes down at your pale face and waits for your eyes to open. When they do, and you register him, you try to lift your arms but he's already anticipated it and he grasps your hands strongly in his own warm ones.

"Why?"

"I couldn't."

It's the look in his ice-blue eyes, right now; that look of utter defeat. That's why you couldn't. That's why you're choking on it; choking on the secret, because you remember a similar secret that also ended in pain.

"Addison."

"Don't say it," you beg, your voice cracked. "Don't say it."

"I can't." His voice is ragged. "I've got to go."

He turns and you grasp his sleeve, but it slips through your fingers and all that's left is that pain you get when something's snatched away.

_I'll cry to remember_

_How very close you were_


	2. Chapter 2

It's funny, how tragedy happens around Christmastime. The holidays are touted as being the most wonderful time of the year; yet, so many people hate them because of the pain that they carry. There's something to be said about the bright lights and sparkling snow, but for so many, it's painful. It's hard to stay cheerful when the soreness presses on your heart; when you see so many that are happy, but you can't feel the same way. When all you can do is sit by the fire, but see no stories in the flames, well. The holidays are just another couple of weeks, except this time, there's snow on the ground and extra jingly music on the stereo.

But. Sometimes, there's hope. When someone's willing to reach out – to reach past the commercialization; to reach past the glitter and sparkle, and to touch someone who's really suffering – that's the holiday spirit. It's when you feel that maybe there's a reason for celebrating the birth of a prophet who's been dead two thousand years. It's when you feel that maybe someone is carrying that ancient message forward. It's when the holidays turn from being painful to being something almost beautiful.

_It's the season of grace coming out of the void_

_Where a man is saved by a voice in the distance_

Mark Sloan hates therapy. He hates it even more when he feels he's been coerced into it. He's sitting in Dr. Frexter's office because he has to, not because he wants to. He knows that something's broken between him and Addison, and he doesn't know how to fix it. Mark feels that when he thinks of therapy as extra tools to fix the broken stuff, he doesn't feel like he's giving his whole soul to someone who wants to psychoanalyze it.

He's a doctor concerned with fixing the surface. He knows, as a plastic surgeon, that when you fix the surface problems, sometimes you fix the pain underneath. He's never understood digging into the dark places to find the sore spots first. He's never understood breaking it down to build it back up. He understands manipulating the bones under the surface; he understands reconstruction. Psych is something that he thinks he will never get.

Nevertheless, he's here, because he's ready to try something else. With the relationship, he's always felt that it's all been surface. Addison's the type of woman who's afraid to go deeper, because when she does, she sees things that make her panic. Derek was someone who was content to leave it on the surface. They both ignored the deeper pain, and then, like anything, it imploded on them both. Mark gets that. He gets the avoidance. At least you get the bliss of pretending it doesn't exist.

Dr. Frexter has his legs crossed and his glasses perched on the edge of his nose. Mark, ill at ease, shifts uncomfortably. "So," he trails off, his voice hopeful. Can we get through this? Can you fix it?

"Mark. From what you've told me in our preliminary session, you and your wife, Addison, have had four miscarriages in the past two years."

Mark winces. "Yes." He can't think about those lost babies, because the pain then shows on the surface. He can't think about the children that he never got to hold.

"The last miscarriage was three weeks ago?"

"Yes." Mark isn't sure why the doctor is focusing on this. "Two weeks and five days, actually."

"So you're keeping count?"

Mark shifts again. "Not on purpose. It's pretty hard not to keep count when you see blood all over the floor and know that it's your baby dying."

The doctor writes something down, perhaps documenting the sharpness in Mark's voice; maybe detailing the flash of anger in his blue eyes. "Where is Addison?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, normally when I'm doing therapy for loss, I have both members of the family here. I'm just curious as to why it's just you."

Mark doesn't like this line of questioning. "Why does it matter if she's here or not?"

Dr. Frexter stops writing and looks at Mark. "Mark, what's really going on?"

It's then that Mark feels it slipping; he feels the tears well up and he covers his face with his hands so that this other, colder man can't see. "I left her."

_It's the season of possible miracle cures_

_Where hope is currency and death is not the last unknown_

_Where time begins to fade_

_And age is welcome home_

When you close your eyes, you're on a plane. Somewhere warm, maybe. Somewhere with golden sand and turquoise water, where the temperature is always a few degrees above blood heat and you can lie on a beach and forget that your skin burns; that your bones will ache from lying on the sand.

Your therapist puts a hand on your arm. "Addison?"

You look up – your hand goes to your abdomen, protecting the baby that isn't there. Protecting against what? 

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize; we're working through this." The doctor has soft eyes. They're brown and calm and ultimately sympathetic, and she's been with you through your divorce with Derek and the abortion you had before you figured out that you shouldn't have bothered, because nature would have taken care of it anyway.

"Can you tell me what you're thinking about?"

You stare sightlessly into the painting just above the doctor's head. It's an Adirondack chair, perched on a deck over a clear lake and golden sand. "Cuba."

"Cuba?"

Last year, he'd taken you to Cuba for Christmas, because although New York is glittering and beautiful, the homelessness and poverty stand out more against the tinsel and lights, and you were pregnant and wanted to cradle the baby in some warm water somewhere.

You were vomiting profusely, hyperemesis gravidarum, and the plane had made it worse, but he'd spent the time rubbing the back of your neck, just under your red ponytail, and mopping your face with those wet towellettes that smell horrible but feel so refreshing. You were more than hyper-aware of the fact that everyone could hear your retching, but somehow, it didn't matter, because he was there and you were there and you were suspended in the clouds, and what does a little nausea matter when your baby is warm inside you and you can see the stars above the silver cotton softness?

The beach had been beautiful. You'd spent Christmas stringing lights on a tiny palm tree; just for fun, he'd hung a stocking on the railing of your sea-view balcony. The breeze had been warm and humid, and you'd spent a couple of minutes with your eyes closed and arms outstretched, taking the life from the sea, taking the life from the air. Your red hair had whipped back and he had kissed the side of your neck and then you'd made love on the bed just inside the door, watching the curtains billow and the stars wheel in the sky, the crazy constellation dances that ended up exploding when you did.

The last day you were there, you didn't want to leave. He'd wrapped his arms around you and you'd admired the way his white gold ring gleamed under the orange of the sunset. He'd traced the edge of your cheek and you'd felt so grateful – this time was it. You had him and he had you and you had your secret, that warm ball of life growing inside of you.

Perfection is never static. Two weeks later you'd experienced the river of blood again and it had felt like the warmth you'd absorbed from the wavy sea was washing down your legs. No one is ever completely happy. No one can ever hold onto it forever.

The doctor presses a Kleenex into your hand. "Addison?"

"He left this time." It's a flat statement and you attempt to lighten it. "I mean, I can understand, I guess. It's tough, especially around the holidays."

"Did you lose your babies around Christmas?"

"Two of them . . . the other two I lost in the summertime." Like it matters when they died. Like it matters at all to this therapy session. You almost get angry – you would, if you had the strength.

Your doctor sighs and writes something on her pad, and you use the time to stare at the snow flying past the windows. He'd taken you out, mid-November, during the first snowfall, and kissed the flakes that tangled in your eyelashes and hairline. You'd shared a candy-cane hot chocolate by one of Central Park's many ponds and it had been so perfect.

Why does perfection never last?

_It's the season of eyes meeting over the noise_

_And holding fast with sharp realization_

_It's the season of cold making warmth a divine intervention_

_You are safe here you know now_

When Mark left, he hadn't known what to do with himself. It was bad enough that he'd left her in the bed, pale and wan, tears still drying on her cheeks. But it was the betrayal coupled with the pain – Mark is incredibly patient, but even he has his limits. He wandered around the hospital for awhile, until he ran into Derek Shepherd, who was on a short-term case before he went back to Seattle Grace.

Derek was aware of the situation; he'd been aware of the miscarriages. When he saw Mark's pale face, he knew that something else was wrong. "Is it Addison?"

"She's had another miscarriage."

"Oh, Mark." Derek's hand on Mark's shoulder helped to steady him, and he managed to sniff back the tears threatening to spill over. Mark hated crying in front of people, and crying in front of Derek meant that he was at the end of his rope.

"I didn't know she was pregnant, Der."

"What?"

"She didn't tell me. I found her in the bathroom practically bleeding out. She kept it from me."

Derek pulled Mark toward him, hugging him roughly and harshly, Mark's face scraping along the rough cloth of his lab coat. It wasn't comfortable, but it was comforting, and Mark allowed his tears to wet Derek's shoulder as the other man patted his back.

"I don't know where her head is, sometimes. I think this has really fucked her up," Mark murmured into Derek's shoulder.

"It's really fucked you up, too."

_Don't forget_

_Don't forget I love_

_I love_

_I love you_

You remember his arms around you when you walk down the driveway of the hospital, and you hug yourself to simulate it, although you know it's not the same. You almost feel lighter without the baby, but it's not lighter in a good way. It's more like you feel you're going to blow away in the cold snowy wind, and even the Christmas lights across the way on those old-fashioned brownstones aren't reaching the darkness in your heart.

You meet him coming down the driveway on the other side, his hands shoved into his pockets, head bowed against the cold wind, and he spots you, but he turns his head.

_It's the season of scars and of wounds in the heart_

_Of feeling the full weight of our burdens_

_It's the season of bowing our heads in the wind_

_And knowing we are not alone in fear_

_Not alone in the dark_

You let out one sob; it's all it takes, and he can't bear to stand you silhouetted against the lights on the hospital, hair lit by the white glowing cross over the main doors, tears freezing on your delicate cheeks.

It's rough and cold but sometimes it doesn't matter; he holds you tightly against him and it's not even about forgiveness. He opens his hand and there's a little golden charm, one of those angel pins from the gift shop. "The Vigil Angel". It's dotted with the palest of green gems; a peridot, which you've never liked but seems to be perfect for right now. Grief is dark blue, and sapphires hurt to look at.

The pale green new life against the gold blurs in your tears, but he whispers in your ear, "I'm not going to give up yet."

It's not forgiveness, but it's close enough.

_Don't forget_

_Don't forget I love you._


	3. Chapter 3

It's not perfect; it's far from it. As Christmas wears on, with snow and ice and people slipping on the street, he comes back and you're a little less stressed. You're still fragile; you still touch the baby that isn't there and you have these gasping crying fits over things like a broken mug or some spilled milk. He's not in a space where he can really comfort you, but he still puts his hands on your shoulders and kisses the top of your head, and you feel yourself steady just by the pressure of his hands.

It's been a week, since the day that he found you shivering outside of the hospital. He'd come home with you that night and you'd had a long talk about things. He was hurt; he actually cried, which is something that Mark doesn't do often. You'd held his hands and apologized; he'd looked at you imploringly, his eyes asking all the questions his voice wouldn't allow him to articulate. What was the reason you kept it from him, really?

It's something that you're not able to answer right now. Your official statement is that you didn't want to hurt him, but he knows it's deeper that that. He doesn't touch you at night and it hurts. He does, however, listen to you cry. Although he never says anything, sometimes, he cries, too.

_And it's open_

_For distraction_

_You found all the words you need_

_Well I found nothing_

_I just grumble_

_'Cause I don't know what I feel_

Christmas trees are things of beauty, to you. To Mark, they're things of annoyance. He struggles with the lights every year and his quiet curses are what you've gotten used to hearing over the soft Christmas music in the background. You sit quietly, out of his way, on the sofa facing the fireplace, sipping spiked eggnog and dreaming as you watch the flames. In other years, you might have laughed at him, or helped him. This year, everything's calm and everything's quiet, and there's unspoken tension that makes laughing seem like a sin.

He finishes with the lights and gives you a smile. "Well, they seemed to go on faster than last year, at least."

"Yeah." You get up and reach into the ornament box, pulling out a silver bell and admiring the winter light on it. "This is so pretty."

"Who gave that to us?"

"I think it was Derek's parents. They gave us so much for our Christmas tree that first year."

You rummage in the box after handing him the bell and come up with a small, fragile ornament at the bottom. Bringing it up to the light takes some doing, but you've got dexterous fingers and you manage to pull it out of the box without breaking it. When you open your hand, however, you wish you hadn't. "Oh, God."

Mark hears the pain in your voice and turns around. "Oh, Addie." He takes the ornament from your hand. It's a Baby's First Christmas ornament, given to you two Christmases ago, just before you lost your second baby. It's so fragile – a tiny circular photograph hole framed in a delicate sparkly snowflake, and you vaguely remember that it's from an old patient of Mark's, a crafty older lady who had an extremely successful tummy tuck.

"Why do we still have this?" Your voice is splintered and you drop your head into your hands. "Mark, you have to get rid of this."

"Okay. Shh, sweetheart." The term of endearment is unexpected and your head flies up. He wraps the ornament in tissue paper and takes it out of the room. When he comes back, you're crying and he actually takes you in his arms this time. "I'm so sorry."

"Who kept that? I just don't get it." You're so confused and he puts a hand on the back of your head, drawing it down to his shoulder. You sob for a moment on his shoulder and you can almost feel his pain through his skin. "I don't know. I think it got overlooked."

"I just can't see it." You wipe your eyes and aren't surprised to see him do the same. "I can't, either."

The tree gets decorated, but you take no pleasure in it, this year. The lights seem to sparkle too brightly; and they're so beautiful that they hurt your eyes. Mark turns his back on the fire and watches you out of the corner of his eye. You catch his concerned expression and turn from it.

That's why. That's why you didn't tell him.

_The moral to the story goes_

_Never leave your heart alone_

Derek, who's still in town, knocks on the door at around eight o'clock and disappears downstairs with Mark to watch the hockey game. You have never understood the obsession with sports; when you're in New York, you kind of have to be a fan of the Yankees, but to tell the truth, you went to the games for all the free beer and hotdogs that either guy would buy you. You wave at Derek and disappear upstairs with the cordless to call Naomi.

You miss Naomi like you would miss drinking water for days; she's wise and wonderful and your best friend, but the best thing of all is that she's been there and it's refreshing. As soon as you hear her voice on the other end of the line, you can barely control the lump in her throat. "Hey, Nae."

"Addison! You better believe I've been waiting for your call! How are you doing, sweetie? God, I miss you!"

"I miss you, too" – and suddenly your eyes start to burn because all you've done is cry for the past three weeks, and you feel the tears spilling over your cheeks. "Nae, oh, God."

"Addie? What's wrong?" Naomi's voice is concerned. "What happened? Is everything okay between you and Mark?"

You're crying so hard that you can't get the words out for a moment. "No. I lost another baby. Three weeks ago."

"Oh, Addison. Oh, God."

"I didn't tell him I was pregnant."

"Addie! Honestly, girl, you get yourself into these situations, I swear." You can almost see her, blue-black curls around her face, dark eyes gleaming at you as she shakes her finger, and your heart aches. "I know."

"Why didn't you tell him?"

"I didn't want him to be hurt again. This . . . this is the fourth, and I just couldn't take him being this broken."

"But he's your husband, sweetheart."

"I know." How you know. "I wish I had told him. He's forgiven me, but it's so weird now. And I miss you. Can't you come here for Christmas?"

"No, I can't. I'm sorry. Sam and I are taking Maya to Aspen for Christmas." You ache to have that sort of life, and you sigh down the phone. "Oh."

"Look, why don't you and Mark come? You could do with a holiday away."

"I would love to go, but I can't ask Mark because he'll get flustered at the short notice, and I can't bear to piss him off again this close to the holiday," you gasp a little, and press a Kleenex to your eyes. Naomi sighs. 

"Sweetie, maybe you need to just come by yourself."

"That's a horrible idea."

"No, it isn't. You and Mark are not doing each other good by staying in the same house and pretending."

"We're going to therapy."

"Together?"

"No. Separately. Mark is uncomfortable with couples' therapy." Your voice has changed to being matter-of-fact, and Naomi laughs a little. "He would be."

"Yeah. So, I feel like if I leave, I'm just betraying him again."

"Well, you think about it. The offer is open. And in the New Year, I think you should take some time off and come down to L.A. for awhile."

"I'll think about it." You're silent for a second, just enjoying her breathing. "You're like my angel."

"I'm no angel." Naomi's voice goes satirical, and you laugh again, feeling it like an unfamiliar tingle in your belly. "Sweetie, I know what you're going through. Just on a smaller scale."

You remember Naomi's miscarriage; how horrible it was. "I wish we both didn't know."

"Maya's kicking up. Shit." You hear a scuffle on the other end of the phone. "Mom! Get off! I want to call Ruby!"

"Maya?" You're surprised and you hear her voice change. "Aunt Addie?"

"Yes, it's Addison. And you're being incredibly rude, not to mention loud, young lady!" Naomi sounds really annoyed and Maya sounds contrite. "Sorry, Mom. I'll wait to call Ruby. Hi, Aunt Addie! I miss you!"

"I miss you, too, baby." You really do. Maya's always been exactly the kind of little girl you've wanted. She's sweet and funny and full of smiles, and just enough of a brat to be normal and not some kind of angel-child.

"Come here soon, okay? I want to show you my new makeup!"

"Okay." She fades off the line and you sigh. "You're lucky, Nae."

"Really? Because you can have her, anytime. She's getting to be quite a sassy little miss lately and Sam's been pretty absent. He doesn't really know what to do with her."

"I just wish I had one."

"Okay, cheer up. Because you're starting to get depressing." Naomi's voice is slightly sharp and you're inclined to cry until she giggles. "Remember the Santa army?"

You laugh suddenly, too. "God, how could I forget?" The Santa army was a traditional decoration at the Montgomery's house, a product of Addison's mother's addiction to old-fashioned wooden Santas. They marched up and down the long staircase, sat on top of the mantelpieces in the drawing room and den, and stared down at you from the wainscoting on top of the sunken living room. "Invasion of the Santas. My mother was mad."

"I loved it, though. All those Santa eyes, staring at you."

You both laugh and then you sigh, feeling better. "I'll talk to Mark about Aspen."

"Okay. No more tears, okay? I hate it when you cry."

"I know. I love you."

When you hang up the phone, you hug your knees to your chest and wish life wasn't always such a punishment.

_Run for shelter_

_An umbrella_

_Fights the rain but not the wind_

_And I'd be silly_

_To start preaching_

_'Cause I don't know which point to make_

"Score!" Derek's voice echoes downstairs and Mark rolls his eyes. "You are way too into this game."

"Okay, who made a special trip to the store to pick up special chips and dip and beer?" Derek crosses his arms and grins, knowing that Mark's wit and smile are a little slow in coming, these days.

"Fair enough." Sure enough, he concedes easily, and the corners of Derek's mouth turn down. "Mark, are you and Addison okay?"

"I don't know." Mark's never been one for heart-to-heart guy talks; in fact, he'd actually just rather watch the game. However, Derek won't let up, because they're brothers, and because they're best friends, and because when you've known someone since they were four and helped them hide Hallowe'en candy and sat in a puddle when they had an accident to make them feel better and stole the last cupcake away from their sister, you have a right to pry.

"That's not an answer."

"Well, I don't." Mark sighs, runs a hand through his hair. "We're doing the pretending thing. Except, I'm not good at it like you were. And she's too broken to keep up the charade."

"Well, what are you doing to fix it?"

"Nothing, that's just it." Mark looks down at his hands. "I don't know how to fix it. I want a baby as much as she does, but I can't commit to it if she won't even tell me when she's pregnant, and I have to find out about it when she almost bleeds out on the goddamn bathroom floor."

"Have you thought about adoption?" Derek's voice is careful. He's never wanted a baby with Addison, and when they were married, it was all about evasion.

"That's the next logical step, but what happens if a baby never comes? What happens if she's disappointed like that again?"

"What about you? What happens if you are?"

"That, too." Mark doesn't tell him that he'd be happy if he could just have you, whole and unscarred. "It's too hard."

"Well, it naturally takes time to get over these things." Derek's voice is a little too reasonable and Mark suddenly wants to punch him. "Get over what things? You mean, the loss of my children? The fact that we never got to see the baby move or hear the heartbeat because she kept spontaneously aborting them before we could get to that step?" He's breathing hard and Derek puts a hand on his arm. "Chill, buddy."

"I don't know what to do, anymore. She's a different person."

"She's aching. I think you should try couples' therapy."

"Yeah, because it worked so well for you two."

Derek shakes his head. "We weren't at a point where it would work well. We were at the end of our tether. You are not."

"I don't understand how you can be this understanding when she's your ex-wife."

"When you're family, you forgive." It's such a simple statement, and Mark suddenly grabs Derek's hand. "Yeah. You forgive."

And it sounds so simple.

_Am I frozen?_

_But it's summer_

_Is that rain or is that me?_

_Yes, I'm melting_

_Please be happy_

_One day soon_

_We might just swim_

You're lying in bed next to Mark and you can't take the silence. You know he's lying awake beside you. "I talked to Naomi today."

"Oh, how is she?" His voice is carefully light and you suddenly roll onto your stomach, pounding your fist into the pillow. "Just say it, Mark."

He's bewildered. "Say what?"

"Say how pissed you are at me. Yell at me. Just do something besides pretend!"

Mark turns onto his side. "I don't know what to say to you; that's just the thing."

"Well, what if I told you Naomi had invited us to Aspen?"

"I'd say, that's nice, but I'm not interested."

"I knew you'd say that." You flip onto your back and sigh gustily. "I'm thinking of just going."

"Over Christmas?"

"Yes." You don't give him a chance to respond. "Since you'd rather I wasn't here, anyway."

"If that's how you feel." His voice is cold, now, and you suddenly start to cry. "Don't you still love me? I mean, I love you. I love you so much and I want to fix this, but you're so . . . cold."

Mark turns away from you. "Stop crying, please, Addison."

"I can't." Your sobs are harsh, like a child's, and the tears don't touch the pain inside. "I'm so sorry I didn't tell you. I would have told you, eventually. You know that."

"When you love someone, you let them in all the time, Addie. You don't hide things. I would have been strong enough to take it, and it kills me that you think I wasn't."

"You told me you wouldn't give up."

"And I won't!" He sits up and stares down at you. "I'm not giving up, okay. I'm here and I'm doing my best, but sometimes, when I look at you, all I can see is you bleeding and it really hurts, okay, because I could have lost both of you and you just don't get that. You want to spare me pain, Addie? Next time, don't shut me out."

He gets out of bed and grabs the throw off the end of the bed. "I'm going to sleep in the spare bed tonight."

You sit up and cover your face. "Don't go, please, don't go." You're begging and he knows it, and he half-turns towards you. "I love you, Mark."

"I love you, too, Addie, but you make it awfully hard." Nevertheless, he climbs back into bed. He won't leave you when you beg. It's the unspoken promise of your relationship, no matter how angry you both are.

_The moral to the story goes_

_Never leave your heart_

_In a box, locked up _

_With cold, cold ice_

He kisses your cheek and then your neck, and you respond a little too eagerly, bumping your nose against his neck and curling your fingers too tightly around his arm. He gasps a little, but he strokes your back and then your hair, moving his fingers down past your soft hair to your clit. As he teases you, you buck against his hands and come rather quickly, if a bit unsatisfyingly. When you reach for him, however, he pushes your hands away and you look him in the eyes, shining softly in the light from the streetlamp across the room outside.

"No."

"Why?"

"Because. Tonight, I want you to be happy."

You curl into his arms and sigh. "Okay. Just stay. Don't go."

"Okay."

_Never leave your heart alone._


	4. Chapter 4

The question is, when does it get better? When does it stop hurting?

The days wear on towards Christmas and you find yourself fingering baby clothes in overpriced boutiques and steering towards the infant section in big box stores, standing with your cart full of single-girl food and feeling your eyes burn with unshed tears. You watch mothers with cranky babies, or sleepy babies, or babies who smile at you behind frilly pink hats or blue suits, and you can't hold back the jealousy when you want to be the one to pick up a cranky baby and lay her against your shoulder, or stroke a sleepy baby's cheek.

You almost feel a physical pain where the baby was, deep at the pit of your abdomen, and the first time it happened you doubled over with cramps and ran to the bathroom. You'd spent an hour there, on the toilet, crying as everything evacuated and the pain slowly ebbed. Funny, how a case of food poisoning can turn into something else, but you knew it wasn't just the sushi you'd had the night before, because it still cramps and it still hurts and it's the loss of that baby you never had.

_So, we're alone again _

_I wish it were over   
We seem to never end  
Only get closer  
To the point where I can take no more  
_

Just to shut everyone up, including his own demons, Mark moved into a hotel room for awhile. You'd begged him to stay, but he'd done it because he needed the time away.

"Don't." He was packing and you were standing at the door, watching him out of tear-blurred eyes. "You promised."

"I didn't promise, Addie." He sighs and packs his things. You'd had a huge fight the night before and many hurtful things had been said. You'd accused him of never really being there. He'd accused you of needing too much and keeping things he should know from him. Both were true, but it didn't make it any less painful.

"I can't do this by myself." The words suddenly blurt out. "I can't be here alone, Mark!"

"Addison." He comes over, puts his hands on your shoulder, and you press into him, needing his kiss. "Please don't do this."

"I can't not do this. You're leaving and I need you."

He wraps his arms more tightly around your shaking shoulders. "You know what the therapist said."

"I hate couples therapy."

"You wanted us to go," he reminds you, and you sigh. Mark's moving out temporarily was one of the conditions set by your therapist. He felt that you both needed time to heal without trying to pretend for each other. You know it's true; so why do you feel so bereft?

"Will you come back tonight? Just to see me?"

"Yes." He kisses you and you know that he'll never be completely out. It's comforting.

Nevertheless, when the door closes behind him, you can't stand it and pick up the phone. "Savvy?"

"What's up, girl?" Savvy's voice is relaxed. "Wanna come over for awhile? It's been awhile since I've seen you."

"Yeah." You don't offer an explanation and Savvy doesn't ask for one. "How about I come over instead?" she suggests, but you shake your head, even though she can't see you over the phone. "No. I'll come there."

Driving is hard when the road swirls with snow, and the changing white patterns make you feel slightly nauseated. Maybe you aren't completely over that food poisoning bout. You arrive at Savvy's house and stumble in, feeling your cheeks burn a little from the cold wind.

The tiny blonde puts her arms around you and pulls you close. "You're freezing, and you're so pale."

"I know. I don't feel good." Your voice comes out as a whine and Sav leads you to the couch. "How about you lie down and I'll get you something to drink?"

She brings you green tea and you sip it slowly, feeling yourself relax. "The doctor prescribed pills."

"What kind of pills?"

"Sleeping pills. He also suggested I should volunteer, to get my mind off things."

"Sweetie, when are you planning on going back to work?" You'd taken a month off to grieve and recover from the miscarriage, and nearly three weeks in, you feel like going back to work would be a humongous mistake. "I can't."

Savvy takes your hand and rubs it between her two warm ones. "You can't avoid it, Addie."

"I don't want to watch other people have babies when I can't have my own. I don't want to hold another woman's child when I should be holding my own!" Your voice rises in slight hysteria and Savvy takes you in her arms. "Okay, okay. Shh."

You sob against her shoulder for a moment and listen to her voice vibrate inside her throat. "Addie . . . this isn't good. I have never seen you like this."

"I know." You sniffle and wipe at your eyes. "I can't break down like this. It scares Mark."

"It scares all of us." Savvy rubs your back for a moment. "I think you need to prepare to go back to work, sweetheart."

You nod, knowing she's right. "Okay."

"Okay. Addie?"

"What?"

"No one's saying it's not okay to break down. No one's saying you shouldn't feel validated. But you have to move on with your life, as hard as it is."

In her eyes, you see the understanding of someone who's never been able to have children and wouldn't have them if she could, because of all her medical problems. "Yeah. Sav, how did you deal with it?"

She sighs. "I haven't dealt with it. Don't ask me."

"Does it get better?"

Savvy considers; she's never had a miscarriage, but the news that she couldn't have children had been very devastating. "Yes. Especially when you realize that there's more to live for."

You settle against her. "Okay. As long as it does."

She kisses the top of your head. "Oh, sweetie. It does."

_  
The clouds in your eyes  
Down your face they pour  
Won't you be the new one burn to shine  
I take the blue ones every time  
Walk me down your broken line  
All you have to do is cry _

Mark comes back and you kiss him hungrily in the hallway, but he's not interested and he pushes you away a little bit. "Are you okay?"

His voice is concerned, and you try to regulate your own. "Why did you push me away?"

"What?"

"You've been doing that a lot these days. You're not interested in sex lately and I just want to know why." You follow him into the living room and watch as he rubs his forehead tiredly.

"I'm tired, Addie."

"Mark!" He looks up at the sharp tone in your voice and his face, already so tired, looks resigned. "Come on! The therapist said we have to be honest with each other."

"The therapist also said that we have to spend time apart and we're not doing that." His voice is rough and you sigh. "I just want to know why."

"Because I can't right now, okay. I'm tired from working fourteen-hour days and I don't know. I'm not in the mood."

You rake a hand through your red hair; the pills that you're on have made it thin a little. "Is it because of me?"

He takes your hand and draws you down beside him. "Yes and no." His voice is careful and you wince a little. "Just tell me."

"I don't know if I can trust you just yet."

"That's never stopped you having sex with anyone else!" You sit up and stare him in the eyes. "If I'm not attractive to you . . ."

"You're as beautiful as ever. I just can't." Now his voice is sharp and you drop it. He fiddles with the ring on his finger for a moment and then asks, "Addie? The Chief was asking today when you'd be ready to come back to work."

"I asked him for a month!"

"I know. He's just curious. I told him you'd be in soon. Was that okay?"

You brush a hand over your eyes. "I guess so. I'm due back two weeks before Christmas?"

"Yes."_  
_

You sigh a little bit and Mark hears the catch in your throat. "No. It's going to be okay, Addison." He puts his arms around you and you blink, feeling a tear fall down your cheek.

"Babies aren't scary."

"No."

"I am a competent surgeon."

"And an absolutely caring human being whom I love very much." He brushes his lips over your forehead and you cuddle in closer. "Thanks for coming back, even though you're not supposed to."

"Thanks for understanding my sex issues."

"I love you."

He rubs your back. "I love you, too."

_  
Hush my baby now   
Your talking is just noise and won't lay me down amongst  
Your toys in a room where I can take no more  
_

The week flies fast, but you make progress in your therapy. When it comes time to walk back through the main entrance of the hospital, you straighten your back, don your favourite black skirt and printed blouse, and put on your Prada pumps. With your hair scooped elegantly into a knot, your reading glasses perched on your nose, you're every inch the competent surgeon.

Babies are not scary.

_  
Photographs and brightly colored paper  
Are your mask you wear in this caper  
That is our life _

_We walk right into the strife  
And a tear from your eye brings me home _

You deliver babies, but instruct your residents to hold the child whenever possible. You no longer smile at the tiny fluttering eyes or grimacing faces; patients start to miss your cheerful smile. Work is work. When you don the white coat, you focus on the science only, because it's too hard not to.

You avoid the other doctors and leave the hospital when you can. The Chief tries to talk to you, but you shrug him off. You're holding up as the days tick by, and only when you deliver a child whose mother dies do you actually break.

The OR is always so cold, and most of the time, you appreciate it, because surgery makes even the coolest-headed surgeon sweat. This time, you wrap one of the pink receiving blankets around this tiny premature little girl who's immediately hooked up to a respirator. The staff bundle her off to the nursery and you pull the sheet over the mother. Why is it that so often, it's got to be one or the other? You wince painfully against the OR light and feel the ever-ready tears coming, but you have a purpose beyond sitting with a dead woman who you didn't know.

The baby struggles the first day, struggles to maintain her body temperature; struggles to breathe. You monitor her IVs and her blood pressure, and fall asleep with your red hair spilling over your arms, slumped over beside her isolette.

When Mark comes in the next morning, having been told that you were in the NICU, he sighs. "Oh, Addie."

You look exhausted; you didn't bother to change your cranberry scrubs after the surgery and your hair is a slightly greasy mess, but he hugs you close anyway.

"Don't get attached."

"I'm not." Your face suddenly crumples. "Her mom died, Mark."

He sighs. "Okay. Don't get attached."

He wipes a tear from your eye and cuddles you close as you watch the baby's chest rise up and down methodically. "She's not yours, sweetheart."

It's so rare that he uses terms of endearment and despite everything, you tip your face up to kiss him. "I know she isn't."

"Okay."

He bends down and kisses you gently; you can feel the slight stubble on his cheeks that he can never quite get rid of, even when he shaves closely. "Maybe one day?" Your voice is hopeful.

"Maybe."

It's good enough, for now.__

The clouds in your eyes  
Down your face they pour   
Won't you be the new one burn to shine  
I take the blue ones every time  
Walk me down your broken line  
All you have to do is cry.


	5. Chapter 5

The air gets colder and the city becomes bright, three days before Christmas and you're still sitting in therapy. Now, you're sitting beside Mark instead of avoiding his feelings. He sits with his legs neatly crossed, picking at his fingernails in that nervous way he has. He hates therapy, but he hates the desperate look on your face more. So you're sitting here and going over the problems, the problems that make you cry and Mark wince, and the therapist pries gently and sometimes it's just too hard and you have to get up and walk out into the slightly warmer hall, breathing hard and trying to control the panic attacks that rise inexorably in your chest.

_If I told you that I lie sometimes,_

_If I told you that I'd run away,_

_If I told you who I was before,_

_Would you follow me?_

Mark sometimes comes out with you. Sometimes, he rubs your back; sometimes, he says nothing. Once, he took you in his arms and let you sob all over his shoulder and leave wet marks on his shirt. The things he says in therapy never match the actions that he shows you outside of therapy, but you've learned to take this in stride and learn to heal.

You clear your throat. "I've recently gone back to work."

The therapist nods his head. "That's healthy, Addison. Have you found that it's helping you to have your mind on something else?"

You fix him with a blank stare. "I'm a neonatal surgeon."

"Oh." He moves uncomfortably until Mark rescues him. "Addison's finding it hard to get through the grief."

"What about you, Mark?"

"I'm hanging in there." His face closes and the therapist involuntarily checks his watch. Mark follows his gaze and frowns a little. "I think we're done here."

The therapist leans forward. "I want you to try to actually talk tonight. Talk about the problems between you. What are your plans for the holidays?"

It's three days away – your season and the time you come alive, and you have no plans. "Just a quiet Christmas at home."

"I see. Well, have a happy holiday." The therapist nods you out of the room and you resist the urge to take Mark's hand. The mood he's been in, he might just snatch it out of yours, and you're a little fragile to take that right now.

You walk out into the cold air and despite yourself; you tip your face up to watch the snow fall past the tall buildings, flying into your eyes. He stands beside you and just at the last – just before you start to walk again towards the subway – he puts his arm around you and you smell the musty cold of his coat and remember when that was the best scent of the season.

_If I told you that I sneak sometimes,_

_If I told you that I love too much,_

_If I showed you the other side,_

_Would you follow me?_

You stand in the NICU and stare down at your newborn – the one whose mother died a week ago. She's not doing that well, either, but you like to think that when she grabs your finger, she knows you're there and not just grabbing at something to cling for dear life. In your head, you've named her Savannah; on her isolette, there's no name at all.

She has no family. Her mother was a high-school dropout who was there on the state's dime; a foster kid having another foster kid. When you look down at the preemie, whose skin is still so translucent that you can see her blue veins, you can't block the images of that first child at four years old, leaning over the cradle to look at the third child while the second toddles to Mark and looks over his shoulder at you with eyes just like your own. You imagine the feeling of feet against your belly and the fluttering, moving feeling of pregnancy, and sometimes, when you're completely alone, you'll tell the newborn Savannah about it and let the tears fall down your face.

CAS is due to deal with her soon. You ache to be that person who gets to take her home; at the same time, you don't want anything to do with babies again.

_Cause I'm shedding my skin_

_So you can see my face,_

_I need you to know who I am._

_I'm ready to go where I've never been,_

_Will you stay around and follow me?_

Mark sits by the fire, swearing under his breath as he attempts to add more wood and burning his fingers in the process. You're curled up on the couch and you've got a book facedown on your knee, but you're staring out the window at the snow and he hasn't said a word since he got home at suppertime. He's still staying in a hotel at night. He still won't touch you, sexually. Sometimes, he'll smile at you. Sometimes, that's all you need.

Tonight, however, you've made an attempt at conversation and he doesn't answer. The therapy has almost created a bigger rift between you, and you suddenly regret it. Even though he hates it – even though he's told you he hates it – you press your fingers into your eyes and begin to cry.

He turns from the fireplace. "Addison. Please."

"Well, you won't answer. Why are you even here? You're not interested in trying to fix this, are you?"

He stands up, his face twisted in anger, and you immediately regret it. "I'm sorry."

"Might I remind you that YOU were the one who lied, Addie?" He goes to say more, but you cut him off. "No, because you remind me every day."

You stand up. "I'm tired of it, Mark. I know you're angry. But I'm your wife; I've been your wife for four years. Doesn't that mean anything? I want – I want –"

"What?" He comes over, takes you by the shoulders. "What do you want?"

"I want you to forgive me. I want you to love me." Your voice is shaky and your lower lip trembles, and his face softens a little.

"I do love you."

"Then why is this taking so long?"

He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and sits down on the couch beside you. "I don't know. I have forgiven you."

"Only, you're not forgetting. You carry it forward every day, Mark, and I've said I'm sorry. I've said anything I can think of; I do anything you want and you're so cold, you just stand there and stare at me . . . I couldn't have stopped that miscarriage even if I did tell you. And I wanted it. I wanted it so badly and you don't get that, it's like you think I did this on purpose . . ." Your voice is almost unrecognizable through the sobs and through the fog, you see his face crumple.

"I wanted a baby so much, Addie. I wanted it more than I've ever wanted anything. And you hid it from me. You knew that I would have helped you through it; why did you think you had to hold it all yourself?"

You wipe at your eyes roughly and feel his arms slide around you. "I just want you to trust me again. You know my reasons; we've been through it enough, Mark."

He draws your head onto his shoulder and you breathe quietly against his neck, feeling your breath return to normal. "I'm trying to trust you, Addie."

"Try harder. Please, Mark."

He knows it's killing you as much as it's killing him. "I'll do my best."

_If I told you the earth was square,_

_If I told you water wasn't wet,_

_If I told you life was fair,_

_Would you follow me?_

No one's looking in the NICU today; no one's there to tell you what you can and cannot do, even though you're the head and you can override anyone's decision. Part of you knows that doing this is not helping baby Savannah; part of you knows that if she bonds to you, she's going to have a tougher time bonding to anyone else; but your needs trump your professional knowledge and you know that holding her once isn't going to kill her.

You trace your finger over her downy little head; watch her pale-blue eyes flutter and open, trying to focus on your face. She opens her mouth in a soundless cry, having recently been taken off her ventilator, and you lean over her isolette, your breath puffing out in a "Shhh," as you slide your hands under her, blanket and all, and hold her against your shoulder.

She doesn't smell like a normal baby. She smells cool and dry, like a mixture of antiseptic and medication, but underneath the hospital smell there's the smell of baby. Milk, baby powder, the plastic of a disposable diaper, and that new scent that all babies have. She sighs and snuggles against your shoulder and you pat her back, so gently, pacing around the NICU and singing in your cracked soprano until you feel her head grow slightly heavier on your shoulder and her little limbs relax.

When you look up, Mark is standing there, and he has tears on his face.

_Cause I'm shedding my skin_

_So you can see my face,_

_I need you to know who I am._

_I'm ready to go where I've never been,_

_Will you stay around and follow me?_

Your blue eyes widen, but you don't say anything, and he doesn't either. He comes up to you and dons a yellow paper robe and mask, taking the baby gently from your arms. When you're not holding her, you actually feel a loss, but he cradles her for a moment and – is that Mark Sloane, actually whispering endearments? Actually holding baby Savannah with no help and with perfect and relaxed method? – and then puts her back into her isolette.

Are you in trouble? You're not sure. You stand, biting your lower lip, until he takes you into his arms.

"I thought I told you not to get attached."

"I've never listened to you, anyway."

He grins against your hair and you tip your face up to meet his ice-blue eyes. He leans down and touches your lips with his own; his dry, cracked lips that you haven't touched in at least a week and so therefore haven't reminded him about chapstick. Not that it matters. His lips quickly become soft against your own; your hands tighten on his back and you thrust your tongue into his mouth and aren't surprised when he does the same. The kiss is so soft, it's almost desperate, and he actually almost pushes you away at the end, despite the fact that he pulls you closer.

"Don't do this in front of the babies."

"They're asleep anyway."

"Addison." You look up into his eyes again and the ice has melted, just a little. "You can't have this baby."

Your face crumples a little, despite his strong hands holding you up. "I know."

"It would take at least a year for the adoption process to go through."

"I know."

"You'd have to step down as head of neonatology. You'd have to slow down and eat healthier. You'd have to get up with her at night and change every diaper and clean up vomit and wash grass stains out of her clothes."

"I know."

He sighs against your hair. "If you know, then why are you looking at me like that?"

You don't answer right away, simply cling to him and listen to ventilators swishing; heart monitors beeping; the occasional baby noise.

"Because my next job should be Mommy."

He doesn't say anything, but he holds you closer.

_To the furthest moon and back,_

_Jupiter and Mars and all that,_

_To the middle of a galaxy,_

_On the smallest raft..._

_I don't know if I can be sure_

_Of anything I believed before..._

_Will you follow me?_

Everything's almost ready. It's Christmas Eve and Mark is upstairs in bed; you're spending a few minutes putting stockings together before you go up to join him. He's been so warm. He cuddled you through "It's a Wonderful Life" and kissed you at diamond commercials by expensive jewellery stores in the city, and you listened to his heart beat as he chuckled at certain parts of the movie. Not a word was said about baby Savannah after the incident in the NICU, but you caught him standing in the old nursery and flipping through paint swatches. You didn't go in and he didn't look up, but it made you smile.

As you make sure that the fireplace is completely extinguished, you hear a knock at your door that you swear must be the wind smacking the oversized wreath against the screen. You turn out the lamps downstairs and start to head up, until you hear the knock again and see a familiar face in the fanlight set into the top of the door.

A rush of joy that you haven't felt in weeks overwhelms you and you can't get to the door fast enough. As soon as you fling it open, you're showered in snow and bags and smiles, and Mark comes to the top of the stairs to shout down, "What's going on?"

"Addison!" Her face is alight and beautiful and sparkling with crystals from the snow, and you can't blink back the tears fast enough.

"Nae. Thank God."

_Cause I'm shedding my skin_

_So you can see my face,_

_I need you to know who I am._

_I'm ready to go where I've never been,_

_Will you stay around and follow me?_


	6. Chapter 6

Things seem to move in slow motion; it's almost the disbelief that she's actually here, actually standing in front of you – the one person you wanted to see, and she's here. If Christmas miracles happen (and you've always had trouble believing that they actually do, especially lately), then this is one. She's got sparkling eyes; she's dressed in a warm black coat and has a pink-and-grey scarf around her neck. She's holding a suitcase, and she's completely alone.

"Naomi?" Your voice is disbelieving, and you hear Mark creep down behind you. You just pray he's wearing a robe. She grins and gives you a big hug, and the cool scent of her coat and the softness of her scarf against your flushed cheek makes the tears well up in your eyes. You press your face against Naomi's coat to hide them, but she can tell by the slight, shaky lift of your back that you've got tear ducts that won't listen to your pride. She kisses your smooth hair. "Merry Christmas, Addie!"

"I don't get it," says Mark, after kissing Naomi on the cheek. "Addison said you were going to Aspen?"

"No. Maya and Sam flew ahead while I held down the practice in L.A., and I'm meeting them tomorrow morning, really early." Naomi winces. "Aspen wasn't a go. Sam changed his mind at the last moment. We had a bit of a fight about it. Maya stormed off to her friend's house." Naomi blinks, then looks back up at Addison. "I have to get to my parents' before Maya wakes up tomorrow morning, but I stopped by because . . . you were really worrying me on the phone."

You lean forward, taking comfort from her warmth and from the gentle massage of her hands on your neck. "I'm glad you did, but Nae, why? This is Christmas. Maya . . ."

"Maya will learn that other people sometimes need help when she doesn't." Naomi's voice is firm, and you're happy that she stopped by, even if it might get her in trouble later. In fact, it's more than happiness. It's the grateful, desperate feeling you get when someone really cares.

_Slowly, softly _

_Please serenade me, I'm here _

_Restless, reviving, river of life _

_You are here _

Mark is yawning, even though it's only eleven PM. He's had a long day and like all doctors, he takes sleep where he can get it. He stays to have a quick cup of tea with Naomi and you, but then he climbs the stairs, apologizing profusely. Naomi simply smiles. "It doesn't matter, Mark. Have a good sleep."

When he's gone, she turns to you. "Addison . . . what's going on?"

You're confused for a moment until you realize she means the tension between you. "Oh, Nae. I just can't." It's too tiring. It's too much. Unconsciously, you touch your abdomen and Naomi follows your hand with her gaze. There's silence, and all that can be heard is the crackling of the dying fire. You stare blankly at the snow, realizing that something's wrong here; you should be talking to Naomi – you should be chattering nonstop. When you turn your eyes back to her, she looks so sympathetic that you burst into tears.

She curls her arms around you and kisses the top of your head. "Wow."

It takes a minute before the tears have cleared enough for you to get any words out. "It's not that bad. I promise."

"Really? Because I don't believe you."

You wipe your eyes and sniffle, realizing that you feel completely disgusting and probably look it, too. Naomi hands you a Kleenex; you vaguely remember teasing her for keeping Kleenexes on her like a grandmother, but now you're just grateful. "We're working on it. It's not as bad as it was."

"Therapy?"

"Yes, although talking to him one-on-one is working more, now." You sigh. "He's . . . still cold, sometimes. But he's getting better. He trusts me more. It's just" – and here your tears burn your eyes again – "I remember last Christmas, you know, and we were happier then. It's just harder to know that it's not like last time."

"It's never like last time, Addie. That's why it's called life." Naomi's voice is a bit too satirical for you and you frown. "That's not what I mean."

"I know what you mean." She holds you against her chest and you listen to her heartbeat, hearing, incidentally, her slight murmur. Despite yourself, you smile. "Your heart has an extra beat."

"It has to beat harder so that I can keep up with everyone else." You can hear the smile in her voice and sigh, cuddling closer. "I'm so glad you came."

"How are you feeling?"

You sit bolt upright, surprising her. "What?"

"Addie. Listen. How are you feeling?"

No one has asked you; the therapist asks about your mental health. Mark doesn't ask you at all. When you were released from the hospital, you rode the cramps for about a week and then just felt tired. You're fine, but you're worn, and Naomi sees it in your eyes.

"Listen," says Naomi. "Let's get out of here."

"Where would we go? It's Christmas Eve."

"To Mass."

"Oh, Nae. No. Why?"

Your flat refusal makes her frown. "Why ever not? What else have you got to do?" You frown back. "It's not . . . I just don't want to. It's not a place I want to go." You don't tell her, Naomi being a more devout Catholic than you, that you haven't been to church since the second miscarriage. She knows it anyway, though.

"You haven't been to church in ages. It's Christmas Eve. Come on."

You stand. "Fine." You're too tired to fight, and anyway, you never see her. May as well do something she wants to do.

_Tell me you love me _

_Tell me you see me _

_Show me your laughter _

_Feed me _

_Tell me you love me _

_I'm the one you need _

_Raise your hand and _

_Reach for me _

It's a small church, not far from where the brownstone is. It's no cathedral; as a child, you attended services at St. Patrick's and this tiny little stone church is nothing like that. It's got the token stained glass; it's got the altar wreathed in poinsettias and a benevolent statue of Mary (slightly chipped), but the candlelight and scent of incense are exactly the same and you step in, inhaling the slightly spicy smell; feeling the peace overcome you.

It's before Midnight Mass; about 40 minutes before, and there are very few people in the church. An old, veiled lady kneels in a pew close to the altar, her eyes closed, her lips moving. A tiny blonde girl is asleep on a pew while her father leafs through a hymnbook and fixes his eyes on the crucifix behind the altar. The organist and choir are warming up in the choir loft; you hear the pipes of the organ moan a little and a soprano lyrically trills an arpeggio.

Naomi genuflects and crosses herself, and you do the same, sliding into the polished maple pew. She hooks her foot under the kneeler and brings it down gently, still with the echoing "clunk" which is the sound of church in your childhood memories. You say nothing; nor does she.

The lights blur as you let your eyes relax; you see the jeweled cross and the tones of the stained glass; you see the carven Stations of the Cross and the ruby carpeted floor, but you don't really see them. Instead, you're remembering.

"_I don't want to make a bargain with you. I don't want you to give me something I don't deserve. But I'm working so hard for this child; I will be a good mother; I'll raise it in the Catholic faith, I'll do anything. So, help me. Help me bring it to term. Don't let me lose it."_

When you look up, Naomi's watching you again, and she reaches her hand out and wipes a tear from your cheek.

"That's why."

_Tell me you love me _

_Tell me you see me _

_Show me your laughter _

_Feed me _

_Tell me you love me _

_I'm the one you need _

_Raise your hand and _

_Reach for me _

After the service has ended in a rich harmony of sleepy sweet carol singing, Naomi doesn't get up right away, and you sort of get annoyed. "Nae. I'm tired, and you still need to get to your parents'."

"Shut up and sit down. You're far too eager to get on with things without actually examining them." Her words are sharp and you sink back on the hard, cold pew. "Fine," you mumble, much like a petulant child, and stare straight ahead, letting your eyes blur the church ornaments again.

Something about church: it's more than just a place of worship. There's a reason why they call it a sanctuary. Despite your impatience; your exhaustion; your constant worry that you're not doing it well enough for Mark, you're relaxing and you're letting go, and you find your lips moving and your eyes finding that red glowing light; that Holy Spirit burning under the icon of the Virgin Mary.

"Please make it right. Please make it right."

Naomi, on your other side, has her own closed eyes and her own prayers; what they are, you don't think to ask.

_Pretty, precious, prism in darkness _

_You make me proud _

_Fragile, fumbling, finally _

_A new day we have found_

She leaves you at the door of the brownstone. "Merry Christmas, sweetheart."

You sniffle. "I know you have to go. I'm not going to say anything." But your eyes say it and she sighs. "When Maya is older, and when she won't care as much about having a perfect Christmas, maybe. Until then . . ."

"She comes first. And she should." After all, so would your children, had they made it full-term. You kiss her goodbye; she brushes the tear from your cheeks. "Try not to let it sink you like this."

When you creep into bed, Mark is snoring, but he's used to waking up at the slightest movement, and he turns over, eyes startled. You whisper, "I'm sorry. Go back to sleep."

"Time?"

"It's 1:30. Go to sleep, Mark."

Instead, he turns over and stares you in the eyes. His eyes are sleepy and they're having trouble focusing without his contacts, but they're warm. "You're beautiful."

"Are you dreaming?" You tease him gently, knowing that your tear-tracked face and mussed red hair aren't beautiful. He smiles. "No. Unless you've been a dream all along."

"Not a nightmare?"

His face creases in concern and he pulls you to him. You feel the warmth of his bare chest and the soft hair on his arms and legs. You know how he's feeling, but you kiss him anyway, just trying, just reaching a little. He kisses you back and you taste a little mint; well, it hasn't been that long since he went to bed. His hand strokes your hair; his body covers yours.

The sex is slow. It's been so long. He trails kisses down your stomach and you suck at the edge of his ear, just gently. He's exquisite; finding the spot just beside your clitoris; it's enough to make you gasp but not enough to make you come. When he enters you, it hurts just a little; you're still a little nervous because you can't believe it's happening.

He comes after he rides your highs and lows. He always lets you come first. He said once that the slight crack in your voice during an orgasm was better than the best blow job. You had frowned, thinking he was knocking your technique, but then he made you come about five minutes later and you forgot everything.

The best part, however, is the cuddling. His chin rests against your forehead; you smell of sex and it's such a relief.

"Why?"

"I got tired of being angry at you."

You sigh again. "It's not all better, though."

"No." He kisses you. "But it's Christmas. I can forget it for today. And maybe, it'll help me forget it for tomorrow."

"And what about the other days?"

"I can't promise, Addison, that I'm never going to be hurt by this again."

Your voice trembles. "I know."

"But I'm ready to let you back in. You just have to let me in."

If you could be inside him, you would be. "I love you."

"Merry Christmas, Addison."

You wait to hear it and it doesn't come. You turn over, thinking he fell asleep.

Then, "I love you so much."

You smile into the dark.

_Raise your hand and _

_Reach for me _


	7. Chapter 7

January's the type of month that makes people want to hibernate and never come out. When the glitter of Christmas fades away; when that last New Year's horn is blown and the bottles of champagne are in the recycling box, you're left with one thing. The New Year's blown in with bitter cold and endless rounds of snowstorms, and suddenly, it doesn't seem so new, after all.

You never thought that a relationship could be defined by a box of birth control, but there it is on the blanket. You're putting on your nightgown and he's brushing his teeth in the ensuite, and you don't even notice when he comes out until you hear the papery rustle of the box of condoms hitting the bedspread.

"Um . . ."

He doesn't answer; he just takes off his pants and stands before you in his boxers, reaching down to take off his socks. You stare uncomprehendingly at the box of condoms and then clear your throat a little. "Um, Mark?"

"What, Addie?" His voice is unconcerned, but it almost sounds like he's controlling it, and you sort of roll your eyes at him, trying to gauge his reaction.

"Condoms?"

He straightens and looks at you. "Yeah. They're condoms. You win a gold star." His voice is gently teasing, but he notices the look on your face and stops. "Addison –"

"We're married. I just . . . maybe I'm being too sensitive here – that's probably it, but is this some kind of statement?"

You'd started having sex again after Christmas, shortly after your period. It hadn't been particularly good sex, but you were, and still are, pathetically grateful for his attention. Mark used to be the person who could make you come with the right touch, but now you pretend because it's too hard to admit that the magic isn't happening. Soon, the three-times-a-day during the Christmas holidays had fallen to once or twice a week after New Year, and then maybe once every two weeks, maybe, now that you're nearing the end of the first month. And he's thrown condoms on the bed.

His jaw ticks a little bit; his eyes are steely. "I don't want to start this. Not tonight."

You curl your arms around the belly that's finally gone flat; you secretly miss the tiny squishy bump that only you could feel; well, and Mark, when he actually remembered to touch you.

"I just want to know. Does this mean we're done trying?"

He sits on the bed and scrapes a hand over his face; you watch an eyelash dislodge itself from his fingers and fall, getting lost in the pattern of the bedspread.

"You've had three miscarriages. Do you want to try again and then we add a fourth?" You can tell he's trying not to be harsh, but there's glass in his voice, anyway. You feel the tears behind your eyes and suddenly want to be anywhere but here.

"Never mind, then." You push the condoms off the bed and hear them hit the floor. Pulling the covers over yourself, you turn onto your side, away from him, letting him take care of the bedroom light. When he gets into bed beside you, he tries to put an arm around your shoulders.

"Don't."

"Addie, it doesn't mean we can never try again. I just think it's too soon."

Your voice is the one full of sharpness, now. "I said, don't. You've made your point."

He sighs, and this is the main difference in your relationship, now. The old Mark would have drawn you to him, maybe kissed your neck, and you would have cried, and maybe things wouldn't have been all right at that time, but you would have been able to see his point eventually.

The new Mark turns onto his side and faces the alarm clock, leaving your back cold.

Yeah.

_The dusk, it has fallen; the comet has crashed  
The stolen statues have lost their heads  
The great wall of China is melting in the rain  
Stacks of words are burning like Pompeii._

So, maybe it was stupid to think that Christmastime makes everything better. It's a well-known fact that Christmas is a time to put away hurts and just enjoy the season, and maybe you enjoyed it a little too much; enjoyed the skiing in upstate New York and the walks through the shining downtown. You visited the Rockefeller Centre tree and kissed as the skaters whirled, and you know what? When there's that much tinsel and laughter, it's easy to believe that everything is fine.

New Year's Eve you spent with him, legs twined on the couch, sipping champagne and watching the ball drop. You remember your need, when you were ten years younger, to actually be there in Times Square, but that night, the quiet and the fire and the sound of the champagne fizzing gently in the glass was enough.

It seemed like enough, somehow, and you never questioned why it wasn't until the decorations had been put away and winter turned from a wonderland into just a pile of slightly gritty snow.__

The fog in our bedroom was thicker than before  
I called your name and it felt like war  
And we ran with our shoes off to the pavement's end  
To the place of our birth at the end of the earth.

You're busy in the NICU today; you've got three infants down with RSV and you've been run off your feet trying to monitor their lungs and make sure it's not going to turn into pneumonia. It's been an exceptionally bad year for respiratory diseases among the newborns and you made all your nurses and residents get flu shots, but somehow, these babies aren't thriving. You cast a look out at the whirling snow that never seems to stay and you sigh. You've got an idea why.

Savannah, the little baby who lay for so many weeks in the NICU, is gone. You miss her – it's stupid to say, and really stupid for an attending of your caliber to have gotten attached to a patient, but you do miss her. You go about your day; you do a few surgeries and wander over to Plastics just to catch a glance or two of Mark, but you occasionally look over at the empty isolette and wonder what happened to her.

Well, you know what happened to her. She was taken by a foster family and hopefully, she'll get adopted. But you miss the feeling of the stolen moments when you held her when no one was looking and you miss watching her dark-blue eyes follow you around the room, even though a three-week-old baby surely can't see that far; you know that scientifically.

It makes it harder to pretend everything is all right when you're losing the constants in your life.__

Helpless kiss, I'm rudderless  
How do you intend to unbreak this?  
We're a paper fleet in an arctic freeze   
On the skin of an endless open sea.

He has hidden the box of condoms in his bedside drawer; no other words are said about birth control or the need for it. You had the gynecological resident at the hospital prescribe you three rounds of birth control pills – fuck it.

You know that it's not really about trying or not trying. It's about the fact that he made the decision without you.

Even though it's hanging between you, neither of you mention it at therapy. Your therapist smiles blandly; Mark smiles blandly; you smile blandly and curl your red-painted nails into your hands until they bleed.__

In boxes in the basement, we buried our hurt  
We were keeping score, we were saving our words  
We touched like flowers, frozen in wreaths  
We fell like stones, we were running in our sleep. 

Despite yourself, you call Naomi. "Nae?"

"Hey, Addie! I was just going to call you – I meant to do it after we got back to California, but life kind of got in the way. Maya has a full course load this term plus band and debate team, so if I'm not working, I'm driving her back and forth from the school at six AM."

"That's okay. I just wanted to hear your voice." You try to smile; you really hate being this angsty, especially when you know that Naomi and Sam aren't exactly on the smooth path themselves.

She knows, though. "How's therapy? Are you and Mark working out some of your issues?"

"He threw a box of condoms on the bed two nights ago. Apparently, that was his cutesy little way of telling me he didn't want to try anymore."

"Oh, Addie."

"We haven't mentioned it in therapy. I know that it's not even about trying. I don't want to have another baby; well, not right now, anyway. Four for four is sort of painful to think about."

"It wouldn't necessarily end in another miscarriage, Addison, you know that."

"It's not something I want to do. But he just . . . decided for us. Without talking to me about it. And I haven't been able to really work up the words to talk to him about it. It's just hanging there and I'm so tired of thinking about all of this." Your voice breaks a little and Naomi sighs down the phone.

"You two are the absolute worst for talking out your problems. You're worse now than you ever were with Derek."

"Mark doesn't talk. He just . . . does things."

"I thought that's why you were going to therapy."

"You know what, Nae? Fuck therapy. I'm tired of talking out my feelings. I want to actually do something about them."

Naomi sounds surprised. "Addie, are you okay? You know, we didn't get to spend much time around Christmas. I think you should take some time, maybe in another month or so, and come down to L.A. for awhile."

You sigh. "All I do is take time, Naomi. When do things start to get better?"

She sighs, too. "I wish I knew." __

Helpless kiss, I'm rudderless  
How do you intend to unbreak this?  
We're a paper fleet in an arctic freeze  
On the skin of an endless open sea 

"Okay, here's the thing."

You've cornered him outside of the OR and he's already looking tired, his scrub cap slightly askew on his head. "Addison, please. I've just done a hip replacement; now I need to prepare for skin grafts in an hour. I haven't slept in about a day and a half and I'm just not in the mood for this."

"I don't care! This is important!" You scream it, almost, to his retreating back, and he stops; he turns. When he raises his head again, you almost feel bad, but you hold your ground. "Stop running from me. Stop with the passive-aggressive shit."

He grabs your hand and pulls you into a linen closet. "What's it about this time? Are you still pissed about the condoms?"

"You know what it's about?" You're so angry that you can barely speak; your eyes are flashing and your cheeks are flushed, and his tired blinking is doing nothing to quell your rage. "It's about the fact that you made this decision and you didn't even talk to me. You made the decision to stop trying and you made the decision that we were going to take some kind of break, and you need to not make these decisions without me. Your life doesn't just move on without me."

He doesn't say anything, but his eyes are fixed on yours and they're so, so hurt. You push on, anyway.

"We're in this together, okay? This has been one hell of a month and a half, and we've been avoiding the real problems and trying to keep it together, and I am tired of this. I'm tired of the tiptoeing. You're still pissed at me. You still think that I made the decision to go ahead with the pregnancy without telling you, even though you know I would; even though I've said I'm sorry about fifteen hundred times. And you know what? We would have been happy anyway, Mark. We would have been happy either way. Because if I hadn't miscarried, you would have known, because I was going to tell you and then my body did it for me."

He opens his mouth to speak, but you press on. "So haven't I been punished enough? Haven't you gotten back at me enough? I'm trying so hard, here, and I can't have you turn away from me when I already feel like a big failure, all by myself."

Your voice breaks and you lean back against the sharp metal shelves, feeling the stubs at the end of each join dig into your back. You feel the tears behind your hands, but this time, you don't care if he thinks you're being manipulative. __

Happy endings are dependant on where the film is cut  
Noah's Ark and the Titanic are different scenes of the same plot  
I will not tear apart your photo, I will not desecrate your grave  
Because I know they are not responsible for the time when they were made. 

You can feel his eyes on you; he shifts and the closet rings a little with your sobs, but he doesn't touch you until you lower your hands and fix watery sapphire eyes on his ice-blue ones. And then, he kisses you.

It's tender and it's healing, and you curl against him and let him kiss you all over; your hair and your cheeks and your tears and your neck, and then he whispers two words to you that you didn't expect to hear. "I'm sorry."

You press closer to him. "I don't want to try either, so that you know. I don't want to go four for four."

"Okay."

"But I don't want to be left out. I don't want you to make the decisions without me, because it sort of shreds at my soul. And I haven't got much of one left, these days." You smile tearfully and he wipes at the wetness on your cheek.

"I love you. And I want kids. And I would have been happy. I was happy, even for a brief second, just before you went down. I thought maybe we could stop it."

"I wish we had," you say, and he almost crushes you with his powerful hug. "It's not your fault. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made you feel that way."

_  
Helpless kiss, I'm rudderless  
How do you intend to unbreak this? _

So, okay. It's harder to deal with things in January; all the people with Seasonal Affective Disorder will tell you this. But, somehow, it's easier to make sunny decisions when you're looking at a bunch of snow.

"Mark. I do want to have children. I want to adopt."

He sighs but he smiles, too. "I thought so. I saw you with that baby."

It's not a yes, but it's not a no either. You kiss him with the light flickering above your head and your hair gleaming under the lights, and outside, through the clouds, the sun peeks through.

It's summer somewhere in the world.

_  
You're a paper fleet in an arctic freeze  
On the skin of an endless open sea._


	8. Chapter 8

It starts when you're walking over green grass, in some warm universe where the sky's bright and the ground's warm, and the trees smell like roses because they've got ornamental flowers that are a little too colourful against the sky. You can feel the wind softly past your face and through your hair, and maybe it's your outward wish for spring – but you think that it's all over – everything that's happened that winter has passed.

Indeed, there's no pain stabbing at your heart in this bright afternoon. You push a stroller and admire the sun on the lake before turning away from the park and into the brownstone where you know Mark is waiting. It's a cheesy perfect scene, and one you've seen many times before. It's not going to last, and you already feel the apprehension as you push open the door.

The house is trashed; the curtains ripped, the walls covered with bloodstains and the floor dirty with excrement and garbage. Your first instinct is to protect your baby; when you pull back the hood of the stroller, however, the baby's gone.

It's then that the stabbing pains in your abdomen start and you know – there's never been a baby. There never can be a baby. Because you can't have one and you can't keep one, and the blood rushes down your legs to join the rest of the unspeakable matter on the floor as everything goes black. You start to scream . . .

_When the dark wood fell before me  
And all the paths were overgrown  
When the priests of pride say there is no other way  
I tilled the sorrows of stone._

"Addison! Addie!" Mark's shaking your shoulders and you unscrew your eyes enough to see his concerned face above you as you thrash out of his arms.

"Blood – there's blood everywhere, Mark, I'm losing it –"

He shakes his head reassuringly and tries to stroke back your hair. "You're not losing anything, Addie. It's okay."

You thrust back the covers. "I can feel it, it's everywhere, God, it hurts," you moan and Mark looks down at the blood soaking the bed. His face registers shock and complete incomprehension until he realizes and sighs.

"Addie, it's not a miscarriage. You weren't pregnant. It's just your period."

You look down at the mess of the bed and belatedly remember that your period was due sometime this week; with the dreams and the insomnia and the demands of work, you'd forgotten to put on protection or even remember that you were expecting it. You hate it – not just because it's tricking your mind into thinking that you're miscarrying again, but also because the pain and the blood and everything else are messy and Mark is once again looking at you with concern.

You heave yourself off the bed and towards the bathroom, turning your back on Mark. "I'm sorry for waking you."

"Addie. It's okay. But this is the fourth time this week." Mark's looking really tired and you feel bad.

"I'm sorry." And you are. But when is life going to give you the break you need to stop apologizing?

_I did not believe because I could not see  
Though you came to me in the night  
When the dawn seemed forever lost  
You showed me your love in the light of the stars._

You're sitting at the kitchen table with Mark, and he's got the laptop in front of you both. "Do you want to go with an American baby?"

You blink tiredly and try to focus on the screen. It's funny, but now that Mark's totally into this adoption thing, you're feeling less and less excited about it. You look at dozens of pictures of babies on the site and then feel your eyes blur and your lower lip tremble.

"Oh, hey," Mark murmurs and puts an arm around your shoulders. "Is this too hard right now?"

"No, of course not. I want this." And you do. You do . . . "I just am tired. Not a lot of sleep, you know, period stuff."

Mark grimaces. "Yeah . . . did you throw those sheets in the wash?"

You blink again, feeling a tear slip down your cheek. "Uh, no. I went to work and must have forgotten."

Mark looks vaguely annoyed. "Addie, I wish you'd told me."

"Why? We have other sheets, Mark." You push your hair out of your eyes. "And I just forgot, okay?"

"Yeah, well, this is your mess. I'm sorry you're feeling crappy, but you could at least try to keep up with the cleaning. And I liked those sheets."

"So why didn't you show me what a good husband you are and put them to soak yourself?" Your eyes are blazing now; your face is reddening, and Mark's face is set.

"I did, if you'd bothered to look," he murmurs, and closes the laptop. "What's going on here, Addison?"

To your horror, you begin to cry. "I can't do this right now, Mark."

Instead of snapping back at you, though, his face changes and he looks like he's trying to hold something back. After a second of silence, he speaks.

"I love you. When you're ready to talk about all of this, I'm here."

He gets up and goes down to the laundry room, presumably, leaving you wondering what the hell is "all of this" and where do you even start to talk about it?__

Cast your eyes on the ocean  
Cast your soul to the sea  
When the dark night seems endless  
Please remember me

Mark's been wonderful – the problem isn't with the marriage. You don't even go to counseling anymore. And you thought you wanted this, this adoption, this welcoming of a new baby into your lives and into your arms.

But you stand in the room that's supposed to be the nursery and you hold a yellow-spattered paintbrush in your hand (Lemonade Stand is the colour, apparently), and the splotches on the walls are so discombobulated. And you can't imagine any baby in any crib; you can't imagine the feel of your own baby in your arms. Because you know that the dreams aren't fake – you'll come home to a house that's covered in blood and dirt; you'll come home to a baby who never existed at all. Or worse, existed only in the form of pain, blood, and broken life.

You suddenly can't bear the glaring yellow and the empty promises that this nursery emulates. Carefully capping the paint can, you wrap the paintbrush in saran wrap and sneak it down to the freezer to properly store it for the next time. Mark comes up behind you as you slip it between the Lean Cuisines and you jump five miles out of your skin as he speaks.

"I thought you were going to do a little painting tonight?"

"I changed my mind." You pick absently at the yellow splotches on your fingers and feel awful and sad and sick, all at once. Because it's a farce, the whole fucking thing, and you feel like a bitch for convincing Mark about adoption when you're not sure you want it yourself.

"Addie?"

Your chin quivers, but you keep looking at the floor. He comes over; he puts his arms around you and sighs deeply. "What's the matter, Addison? What can I do to help you?"

And all you can do is cling, because how do you tell your lover that you're keeping things from him, again?__

Then the mountain rose before me  
By the deep well of desire  
From the fountain of forgiveness  
Beyond the ice and the fire

It happens at work the next day. Between your uncertainty, your lack of sleep, your cramps and your constant mind slips regarding eating, it's no wonder that you look into a woman's body cavity, throw yourself back from the surgical table, and vomit just before you reach the door.

Your residents and interns gasp, but before you can stave them off, you vomit again and then everything goes black.

And you can feel yourself falling – falling towards the floor and there's nothing you can do to stop it. Your head hits the tile; your legs bounce painfully, and your eyes close, the people above you blurred amid the smell of vomit and the pain.

When you come to, you're lying on a gurney in a hospital room and Mark, clad in scrubs, is standing above you.

"When did this happen? She collapsed in surgery?"

"Dr. Sloan, her blood sugar is really low. She just fainted. She'll be okay once we get an IV into her." You vaguely realize someone is fumbling with your arm and you sigh, feeling your back hurting and your head aching from where it struck the floor. You also feel vaguely nauseated.

"Mark?"

He turns his attention back to you. "Hey. How are you feeling?" The feel of his cool touch on your forehead makes you smile – it feels so good. His eyes are concerned; he sighs. "How come you haven't been eating?"

"I forgot, I guess." Your voice is weak and he has to lean down to hear you. "I'm really tired these days. I just . . . forgot."

He sighs. "Addie . . . you can't do surgery on an empty stomach."

You wrinkle your nose. "I threw up in there. Almost in the body cavity. I don't think I'll be doing surgery on that patient ever. In fact, I hope the family doesn't hear about it. I really don't want to get sued."

He smiles a little. "You won't get sued." He strokes your forehead for a couple of minutes and you close your eyes. When you open them, he sighs.

"Do you want to go home?"

Panic suffuses through you. You're a little surprised at how the very word can make you feel like you're going to explode, but you shake your head as emphatically as you can while trying not to knock your brain around any more than you have to.

"I don't want to go home. I want to stay here."

"Well, sweetie, I think you're going to rest better at home." His voice is soft, but firm, and you shake your head again. "I can't go home, not in the middle of the workday, Mark!"

He looks really surprised, now. "Addison. You're not well. You can take a sick day."

"It's not that!" Your voice rises a little and he shakes his head in incomprehension. "Why are you being so weird?"

"I can't go home." Your voice is soft and your lower lip trembles, and then realization dawns on your face.

"You can't go home."

"No," you whisper.

He rises from his chair beside the bed and walks over to the door, then turns back. "Addison . . ."

"I'm sorry, Mark."

"Don't apologize!" His voice is louder than he intends it and you burst into tears without wanting to, without wanting him to think you're manipulative. The resident still in the room looks uncomfortable and Mark barks at him.

"Page psych, and get the hell out of here."_Though we share this humble path, alone  
How fragile is the heart  
Oh give these clay feet wings to fly  
To touch the face of the stars_

"Post-traumatic stress disorder."

The diagnosis surprises neither you nor Mark. You sit up in bed, still in your scrubs, and Mark takes your hand. You limply withdraw it, and he doesn't attempt to take it again.

"All your symptoms point towards PTSD," says the psychiatrist. "I'd suggest regular therapy and some medication, some SSRIs which will help you with the mood swings and with the desperation."

You nod, not really feeling anything, and Mark looks at you. You ignore his gaze. "Do you want me to stay for observation?"

"For tonight. But you don't have to stay in the hospital for this, Dr. Montgomery. You'll probably rest better at home." He writes a prescription and hands it to you, then leaves the room.

Mark opens his mouth, but you shake your head. "No."

"I just wish you'd said something, before this."

"Mark. Please."

"Addie. If you weren't comfortable with the idea of adopting . . ."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Addison –"

"Mark!" You yell at him and determinedly close your heart to his hurt expression. "I know you're trying to be supportive. I know you care. And I appreciate that. But I can't. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to have a heart-to-heart about dreams about dead, bloody babies or not eating or not looking after myself, because I already know and I already hate myself for it, but I just can't seem to stop."

"Why do you think that you're going to be a bad mother?"

You're amazed at his astuteness. "Because I've never had a chance to be a good one."__

Breathe life into this feeble heart  
Lift this mortal veil of fear  
Take these crumbled hopes, etched with tears  
We'll rise above these earthly cares

The stars are shining outside your hospital room; you lie on your side in a fetal position and cradle yourself; cradle the pain and the heat and the love that is you. You've always taken care of yourself and this is no exception; you've realized that hating yourself meant that you forgot the child inside who's not dead, and not bloody, and is the essence of who you are and who you know you'd be as a mother.

And maybe the adoption needs to be put on hold. Maybe you have to go through the mind-numbing effects of the anti-depressants before you can come back to yourself. If you're telling the truth, you know you need the time. The dead baby dream needs to fade. After four times, it's not surprising. It's just surprising that you've ignored yourself this long.

It's a prayer you say. It's a hope you have, one that hurts so hard that you can't think of anything else, and a supportive husband is one thing, but you just want to be yourself again.

You need to remember to forget. It's just the way it is, and the way it'll always be. __

Cast your eyes on the ocean  
Cast your soul to the sea  
When the dark night seems endless  
Please remember me.


	9. Chapter 9

You scare him, because you've taken to walking at night. The trees are dripping with the first hint of spring; the air is softer and the earth smells new, but you walk because you don't know where else to go.

He lies in bed and he stares out the window, and he watches you as you pass the brownstone on your eternal pacing. Sometimes, he turns away – sometimes, he watches you until you pass out of sight. Then, he'll turn over and bury his face in your pillow just to get a sense of who you are, because really? He's almost forgotten what it's like to be married to you.

You've almost forgotten, too.

_The broken clock is a comfort  
It helps me sleep tonight  
Maybe it can stop tomorrow  
From stealing all my time_

You finger the bottle of SSRIs. "What are these?"

"They're to help with the anxiety, panic attacks, the bad dreams." Your therapist's voice is calm, and you know what they are – you're a fucking doctor. You don't want to hear what they'll do.

"Why are they a solution?" You hate medication. You've got insomnia and you refuse to take the Ambien. You're afraid to take too much Dramamine for nausea for fear that it won't work when you really need it. You'll ride out a headache before you'll take an Advil. It's just not something that you do. But you feel, inside, that there's a certain beauty to the yellow capsules that smell like a mixture of metal and bitter. The scent twists your mouth; it's like tasting lemons. And pills don't really seem that bad.

"We have to get you to a place where you're comfortable talking about what happened," the therapist replies. "The pills will even you out. They'll let you get some sleep." Her gaze falls to your shoes, and this – this is what's been scaring everyone the most.

On your feet is a pair of worn-out Reeboks. They're so worn-out, in fact, that the sole is peeling from the upper. The tongue is frayed and the laces dirty. And although you've worn this pair of shoes in and out of a million surgeries, covered by pale-blue surgical booties, your constant walking has eroded the Reeboks to the point of no return.

Looking down at them, you're not sure why you should care.

Forty pairs of shoes, carefully preserved in Pyrex cases. Forty pairs of shoes, carefully labeled in your best writing.

Forty pairs of shoes that you have spent hours shining and preserving so that they'll never look anything less than new.

"Addison?" Your therapist's voice rises from the height of the shoes back to normal speaking level and you blink. "Yes?"

"Are you okay with this prescription?"

It's not normal for a doctor to ask you if you're okay with a prescription and your gaze falls back to your shoes.

"Yeah, fine."

And forty pairs of shoes that used to be your pride and joy are almost faded from your memory, because why the fuck does it even matter anymore?__

And I am here still waiting  
Though I still have my doubts  
I am damaged at best  
Like you've already figured out

The pills cause you to shiver – you sit and your fork trembles in a high, lilting tone against your plate. You cross your ankles to keep your legs from rattling your chair but the fact is, you're not hungry and you don't care and the half-sleepiness, half-caffeinated buzz from the pills make you feel like you want to lie down somewhere and just quell your racing mind.

Mark puts his silverware gently on the plate; he knows that noises are too loud, no matter how quiet they are in another setting. He opens his mouth, but you shake your head.  
"No."

"Addison."

"I can't, okay? I just can't." Your teeth chatter and you wrap your arms around your torso, trying to hold on and trying to keep yourself from breaking open and flowing in all sorts of directions you really don't want to go.

He shuts his mouth and picks up his fork, but then puts it down. "You're not eating."

The pills list "anorexic effects" as one of their side effects. You've never been fat, but now you're thinner than you've ever been. You can't bear for him to touch you because you can feel your bones against his arms, and it disgusts you.

You look him in the eye for the first time all meal and the shocked look on his face gives you a strange sense of satisfaction. You know how you look – you know your eyes are nearly swallowed by your pupils; you know your shoulders are hunched and that you breathe through your mouth.

Yet, somewhere inside, you also know that this isn't his fault.

You put down your fork next to your barely-touched pasta and look down at your plate. The strangest thing about SSRIs is that you can feel the tears behind your eyes; you can feel the grief at your throat.

But like everything else, there just doesn't seem to be a point to it. And with that last thought, you get up and face towards the door.

Mark doesn't say anything.

This time, you wish he would.__

I'm falling apart  
I'm barely breathing  
With a broken heart  
That's still beating  
In the pain  
There is healing  
In your name  
I find meaning  
So I'm holding on  
I'm holding on  
I'm holding on  
I'm barely holding on to you

He pushes back from the table – he places his plate in the sink and reaches to clear yours, and then he realizes that you haven't gone upstairs, after all. You're standing at the edge of the bottom step and you're shaking.

Now, here's the thing. The pills are not only skewing your sense of reality – they're skewing his. He doesn't know what to do with you, shaking and walking on eggshells. So, he pauses at the door of the kitchen and his face freezes into a waiting expression. He's waiting for you to tell him – he's not going to shatter it by asking.

And so you do. "There are bugs on the stairs."

Of the thirteen side effects listed, he's quickly realizing that you have about ten of the worst ones. "No, Addie, there are no bugs on the stairs."

You cling to the railing – it's like a bad dream. You know, deep in your surgeon's mind, that there are no bugs on the stairs. You know that the stairs will not fall away from you, leaving you tumbling blindly to the very bottom of the house's foundation to be buried behind a wall of grit, stale soil and dead animals.

He comes behind you and places his hands lightly on your shoulders. You're so sensitive to touch that one tap can send you flying through the roof, but his hands are warm and he is calm.

"No bugs."

You lean forward – you touch the stairs and blink in surprise as the bugs melt away. "No, I guess not."

He wraps his arm around your waist and with his other hand, gently detaches you from the railing. "So, let's take it one at a time."

You step off the stairs to step in time with him. He keeps his hands on you until you reach the bedroom.

When he lets you go, you almost pull him back. Almost.__

The broken locks were a warning  
You got inside my head  
I tried my best to be guarded  
I'm an open book instead  
And I still see your reflection  
Inside of my eyes  
That are looking for purpose  
They're still looking for life

Although he hasn't asked or initiated, you sneak your hand across the sheets when the side effects settle down. For the first time in ages, you sleep without dreams. He lies beside you and when he knows you won't wake up, he strokes your red hair and he kisses your cheek because he's realized that having you here, even just as a warm body beside him in bed, is better than losing you to the madness.

He responds by kissing your neck, your collarbone, trailing kisses down your clavicle and running his tongue over your breasts. And suddenly, as soon as it starts, your desire stops. It hovers just below the skin that the pills create – it's like a viscous, impenetrable layer that lets nothing in and allows nothing out. It pushes against this skin, but you turn to your side, away from Mark.

He could refuse to understand. He could get angry at the thought that you've built him up and yet you turn away.

Instead, he gets up and walks into the ensuite bathroom. When he comes out, he wraps himself around you and kisses the back of your neck.

__

I'm hanging on another day  
Just to see what you will throw my way  
And I'm hanging on to the words you say  
You said that I will  
I will be okay

Premature babies are always a cause for concern. They're tiny and they're sick and you hang over them and have your residents check them more than the other babies. And this one, at three pounds, one ounce, is easily the smallest baby in the nursery. You push the thoughts away – the pills are good for that but the reality is a bit different – and check the tiny fluttering heart, the barely-there breathing sounds.

And just as you think that there's no emotion left under the skin, you break down in the middle of the NICU.

_Broken lights on the freeway  
Left me here alone  
I may have lost my way now  
Haven't forgotten my way home_

To this day, you don't know if someone paged him or if he was there all along – to this day, you don't know if he somehow heard your heart call or if he just was waiting for the right time, the right chink in this armour that you shielded yourself in.

But he leans his head against yours, you feel his tears in your hair. He's got such a tight embrace and it's almost suffocating, but you hold him tighter – you hold him like you're holding for more than life – like you're holding for all the lives you've lived together and all the lives you'll live beyond this.

It doesn't stop. It never stops.__

I'm falling apart  
I'm barely breathing  
With a broken heart  
That's still beating  
In the pain  
There is healing  
In your name  
I find meaning  
So I'm holding on

When you get hold of your emotions, when you pack them back under the skin, you turn your eyes up to meet his.

"It was my fault, after all."

And he breathes in and out, his chest rising and falling under your cold hand, but he never breaks your gaze as he replies.

"Nature is nobody's fault."

And just like that, the skin breaks away._  
_

_I'm holding on  
I'm holding on  
I'm barely holding on to you_


	10. Chapter 10

He got used to seeing you; he got used to feeling your presence against his back in bed and turning over to see your fall of t

He got used to seeing you; he got used to feeling your presence against his back in bed and turning over to see your fall of tangled red hair across the pillow. You never said much but somehow you never had to – that's how it went. It was a love that was medicated with heavy mood stabilizers and Ambien-induced sleep. It was a love that was so languid that it never had to make excuses for bad habits or towels left on the floor; never had to explain why the bread was left out or the dishwasher unemptied. It never made those excuses because there just wasn't any point.

Instead, he held you at night, whatever shell that the medication offered him, and you fell asleep to his rhythmic breathing and the heat against your neck. You felt him spooned against your back, holding you safe against whatever nightmares.

Because he was always there, you felt it would always be enough.

He tried so hard. In the past, you would have doubted his loyalty to this marriage. There was too much joking and not enough listening; there were fights that lasted hours and ended in rough sex with your head hard against the headboard of the bed and your hands clenched on his shoulders.

It took a night of completely passionless sex for you to realize how committed he was to you and to everything else. And because the numbness was so foggy; you were drowning in numbness although you knew somewhere inside you loved him back, you didn't have the feelings left to cry when he came and you didn't; when he bowed his head to you and you felt like pulling away.

He was committed – is committed.

You knew that you had the power to pull through it as the months passed and he was there every time you needed him. You knew that somehow life would go on.

You knew it, yes – but knowing isn't always truth.

The day the stick turned blue, it all came rushing back. Depression-drugged or not, you sank to your knees and let it clatter to the floor, spattering a little on the tile, the mushy end.

The knowing was replaced by failure, and leaning over, you threw up for the first time in four months and cursed the God that wouldn't let you fucking be.

_Running the race  
Like a mouse in a cage  
Getting nowhere but I'm trying  
Forging ahead  
But I'm stuck in the bed  
That I made so I'm lying_

He lies in the cold bed and blinks at the ceiling; he could have the whole fucking world on his side and it still wouldn't change things. He's angry at you and he's angry at himself and the world that makes things so damn hard sometimes. But none of it really matters, because things are the way they are.

He'd pulled a twenty-four hour shift at the hospital the night before; you were still working but you had the night off. The day had been hard; he had had several cheeky interns and a lot of complications with the surgery, but he had looked forward to coming home and telling you about his success. He'd saved and stabilized the patient, and both of you know that it's the little things that count sometimes when the rest of life is shit.

But when he got home, you weren't standing at the stove cooking dinner. You weren't stirring a pot of sauce or chopping radishes and carrots for a salad. And he felt unnaturally angry; it was the stress and it was the fact that he was built up about telling you about his day and you weren't there. You were balled up under the covers on the bed, in a drug-induced sleep, and he got angry. He got angry, and it was a mistake, but he's human and the constant stream of support and worry takes its toll.

He had picked up a Thai takeout menu and reached for the phone before his hand stopped in mid-air. And without thinking it through, without stopping to compose himself and rationalize his temper, he had headed for the stairs.

He would come to regard this as a mistake later on.__

But if you keep real close  
Yeah, you stay real close  
I will reach you

I'm down to a whisper  
In a daydream on a hill  
Shut down to a whisper  
Can you hear me still

You have to take a moment, between his decision to address the problem out of anger and the walk to the stairs. Looking back on it, treating a fragile wife as the person she used to be was not a good idea. Medication gave you both a false sense of security; it added a fake normalcy to something that wasn't, and never would be, the same again.

If you had seen the medication as something to help you; if he had seen the stopgap in the marriage as a break, as something to rebuild your relationship, the situation would have been different. The love was there – it was always there.

But maybe he wasn't attuned enough and maybe you were so lost in your personal hell that you didn't see it slipping from you.

Either way, the moment for reconsideration passed, like a whisper in a room full of voices.__

Eager to please,  
Trying to be what they need  
But I'm so very tired  
I've stopped trying to find  
Any peace in my mind  
Because it tangles the wires

He swung the door open; your eyes had fluttered open. Always a light sleeper, you used to suffer from insomnia, and the SSRIs were like soft pillows, pressing your head down. The sleep is like a blanket that covers everything; you don't have to deal with anything in deep, dreamless sleep.

He had put a warm hand on your shoulder. "Addison?"

"Mm?" Your eyes had struggled to stay open; you were so tired. "Mark?" You'd coughed once, twice. "What time is it?"

"It's six pm, Addie." He'd sighed. "Have you gotten up at all today?"

You were wearing a crumpled pajama shirt and soft mint-green fleece pants. "I guess not."

He frowned and you frowned back, feeling a faint stirring of annoyance. "Why is that a problem? It's my day off."

"And maybe I wanted to come home and talk to my wife after my work day?" He didn't mention dinner, but you caught the implication in his voice and now the anger had risen to just under the surface.

"What, so essentially, Mark, you wanted the little woman to have a hot meal for her man when he came home from working so hard?" You had heard the whine in your voice, that tone that you hate and that had become a part of you.

His eyes had ignited. "I didn't say that, Addison."

"But that's what you want, right?" You struggled up, out of bed, feeling your feet hit the coolness of the rug and feeling your back pop from being in one place all day. "You wish that I was back to normal – you wish that I wasn't like this."

"Of course I wish that. Don't be stupid. It's not an insult to you."

His voice had been so dismissive, so incredibly uncaring, that you'd snapped.

"Yes, a perfect wife, right, Mark? A wife that can make you dinner and be a successful surgeon and keep a clean house? A wife that doesn't need medication to be normal, who doesn't cry at night or faint in the middle of surgery?"

He winced, opened his mouth to stop your tirade of words, but you pressed on – and your decision to do so unraveled it all.

"A wife that can bear your children without a rotten womb that makes her lose them. That's what you want, right, Mark?"

And time had stopped.

_  
But if you keep real close  
Yeah, you stay real close  
I will reach you_

I'm down to a whisper  
In a daydream on a hill  
Shut down to a whisper  
Can you hear me  
Can you hear me still

His face had fallen; his lower lip had actually quivered, and you wanted to take the words back. Because you knew that it wasn't true. It hadn't been true for ages – he had been someone who loved you; your other half, your soulmate and the person who cared about you most. You'd felt it in his eyes, in his words, in the way he'd stroked your hair and made you food (and learned to cook at that); how he'd turned from Mark who couldn't show his emotions well to Mark who would give anything to have the Addison he knew and loved just by his side and starting to get better. You'd wounded him and now you were going to see his tears and instead of feeling triumphant, you felt a mixture of anger, pain and regret.

And he hadn't cried. His face had hardened. And he'd said, in a low voice:

"If you can't tell the difference between annoyance and anger, Addison; if you can't tell the difference between me wanting you to be okay for you firstly and for both of us secondly and me being selfish, then what the hell are we doing here? What are we fighting for?"

And you'd shrugged, powerless in your pajamas and tangled hair, and then began to cry.

And instead of staying to comfort you this time, he'd just left. Because we have a breaking point. Because we sometimes just can't. And he loves you and has loved you and is ready to lay down his life for you, but you keep pushing him away.

There was no sound from the bedroom after that; he sat with a container of cold rice pilaf and a hunk of Cheddar cheese and tried not to listen to your stumbling; your tears, the retches into the toilet.

Because when you try everything, what's left to do? How do you cure desperation? How do you break through something you thought was getting better, but ended up being a farce?__

The sound tires on my lips  
To fade away into forgetting

He'd slipped out of the house when he heard no more sounds from above. He'd slipped out for a run; to feel the cold spring air on his face (the coldest spring in one hundred years; yeah, well, he knew it better than most) and to feel the air tear his lungs so that he could feel something besides masked worry for a change.

The run was liberating. He ran out the worry; he ran out the sick slump of his stomach when you woke up crying in the night; when you refused to eat. He ran out the days of sleeping; the dead eyes in the corridors of Mt. Sinai, the way your red hair lost its luster and your face puffed up from the medication, but that he knew inside he loved you anyway because you were still Addison and you were beautiful under all your pain.

He ran it out and he ran it hard and ended up coughing gobs of metallic phlegm into the wet grass outside of the park, but when he came back, the mist in a fine shower on his face and in his hair, he felt better. Calmer. Ready to help you. Ready to recharge and to be who you needed. Ready to hear your whispers in place of the old fiery screams.__

I'm down to a whisper  
In a daydream on a hill  
Shut down to a whisper  


He'd pushed open the door; he'd climbed the stairs again. On his eyes was the picture of you crumpled in bed and he could feel your heat in his arms again; he could feel you taking his comfort to yourself and healing. He knew that he could start the healing again.

What he didn't know is that you had deemed it too late for that. What he found was the note hastily scribbled on the pillow that still held the indent of your head.

And what he did, instead of holding you; instead of making you a meal, of being the husband you wanted – what he did instead was bow his head so low that his neck cracked and close his eyes in defeat.

And two tears dropped into your footprint on the rug; it was forgotten, now. All that was left was the barest hint of your presence in the room.

_Can you hear me  
Can you hear me still_


	11. Chapter 11

The car smells like cold, and your nose tingles, but you tighten your hands around the freezing steering wheel and focus on th

The car smells like cold, and your nose tingles, but you tighten your hands around the freezing steering wheel and focus on the road. Driving is soothing; it's that type of activity that once you're on the highway, you can get lost in whatever thoughts you have.

You put the car on cruise control; you get a little bit obsessed with wiping the dust from the buttons on the console, but it doesn't matter because you know this time you're wrong; this time you can't blame it on something he supposedly did. Because you're the one who's fucked up and you're the one who's running, like Derek ran from you; like you ran from Mark. He's always been there – he's always been there.

But realizing it doesn't make for atonement; knowing you're wrong to be doing this and that maybe part of it's the depression and the other part is just the core of you doesn't make sorry good enough. So when you leave, you don't know if you plan to come back.

It's all so up in the air. It's all up to chance. And goddamn it, but you're so sick of leaving things up to Fate.

_Mission Street is a striking dark-eyed stranger_

_Who speaks a language I don't know but long to learn_

_Its cadences fall endlessly beyond the windowpane_

_As I sit as though awaiting some return_

The highway's like a black satin ribbon; it weaves through sprays of brown branches on the opaline horizon and glances off the surface of pocked rotten snow on the soft shoulders. Twice, you pull over to be sick. The positive stick is hidden in a tissue inside your purse, but you also know that the depression medication gives you these horrible side effects. But even vomiting on the side of the road has this wry sense of belonging; standing and watching the light try to make its way through the clouds; it's like your reason trying to make its way through the fog.

It's all so damn useless. And that's what it's come down to. Because you hurt him every time. And it's not fair, because you know that you love him somewhere buried below everything, below all the rawness and the hurt. But you blame him, a little; you blame him for not being able to carry this, to carry this pain.

And what's worse is it's not his fault – it's not his fault that you're so damaged. He's damaged, too, but he holds it so much better. And you hate yourself for losing so much control, for letting it slip so far out of your hands. Because you might have lost him, now. It's the futility that keeps you from turning back.

But you wish you had that option. If it was offered, you'd take it. Being without him, without your children – it's devastating. Even feeling the ghosts in that echoing house was better than this.

Your mistakes; his mistakes – they're the same damn ones. And you wish you'd known that before the blame game; before the crumbling, the falling, the scraped knees that never heal and the scabs that you love to pull off to hurt him – to hurt yourself.

_And my hands are cold tonight_

_I'm sleepless in this dark_

_Forgetting what it was I came to find_

_And it seems that I've been wrong_

_More than I've been right_

_More than I've been right_

The light fades from the sky, the further you drive. At first it was to get away. Because you know you've pushed him to his limit but you felt that he didn't really care. If he had cared, would he have said it? Would he have looked at you, contemptuously? Would he have turned away? Would he have radiated his blame to you?

But now you know that like everything else, it was all you. You imagined it and you remember his warm arms around you in the nights where you couldn't stop crying; you remember the glasses of sparkling gingerale that he put to your lips when you threw up so many times that you saw blood. And you remember his forgiveness; his acceptance that Nature's a damn cruel bitch and even now, it could be pregnancy and you just can't deal.

With the fading light comes the remorse. And you pull up outside of a small town just past the Connecticut border and realize that your driving hasn't been aimless; your speed and your turn signals and passing the signs to the next town wasn't all auto-pilot.

Because you pull up in front of the old house and you realize; what you really wanted was to come home.

_Mission Street calls out to me by name_

_Then hurries on before I've hardly turned my head_

_Promises of answers muttered underneath her breath_

_Like an offering of contraband misread_

There's a new family there, now, but it was the house of your childhood. Where you sat every night for dinner with a WASP-y mother and father and picked at food, trying not to bring their notice and criticism onto you; where you played on the green lawns in the summertime and tried to catch fireflies in the woods behind the place, close to the river. Your room was a bay-windowed splendour where nightmares happened sometimes but your nanny was there to comfort you and soothe you back to sleep. And no matter what happened there; how you left after your parents died and cried huge gulping sobs at the funerals after the car accident, it was home and it was where you could hide and no one would think to find you.

So, maybe it's weird, that you stand on the edge of the curb and look at the graceful porticoed roof and the gingerbread edging. The curtains are open in the front room and you can see the family at dinner, laughing at the table, and perhaps more now, than ever before, you feel a physical pain at what you and Mark really lost with these miscarriages. You lost the children that would laugh and giggle and sparkle with their own personalities; you lost Christmases and Easters that were full of holiday cheer and snowballs and eggs in the cold garden; you lost a marriage that would have been stable and happy and without fear of death and loss and darkness.

The wind chaps at your cheeks and whips your lusterless hair around your eyes, but you don't move, because it's the brightness you crave – it's the way the father laughs heartily at the head of the table and the baby smears ice cream on her chin and the oldest boy takes a second helping of mashed potatoes and gravy. They're probably not a perfect family, but it doesn't matter, because in this moment, you can pretend they are.

Success is such a farce. You can have it all and never really have it all. And standing there in the cold, with your lint-covered black coat around you and the car chugging patiently behind you, you realize that more than ever.

_And my hands are cold tonight_

_On the strings of this guitar_

_Looking for the chords of what I've left behind_

_And it seems that I've been wrong_

_More than I've been right_

_More than I've been right_

The diner smells like smoke and stale food, but you stop there anyway because you have to pee and you have to do this, just to find out. Is it a fifth chance? Is it another death sentence? Pulling into the parking lot, you fail to care for once that the car is crooked in the space and the gravel will wreck the soles of your shoes, and you stalk inside, your hand closed around the new pregnancy test and your face set and hollow.

The hag running the front counter doesn't even look up at you when you ask for the bathroom in a cracked voice; she just waves you to the back and tosses a greasy key onto the Formica before you. You take it, grimacing at the feel of it in your hand, and slide it into the lock, which creaks loudly and causes half the patrons in the place to stare at you. But you don't care; you sneak through the crack into the foul-smelling interior and try not to care that the place doesn't look like it's been cleaned in ages.

The three minutes aren't a blessing. You stand and stare at your face in the mirror; at the white cheeks that used to carry rose; at the eyes that are sunken into your face, framed with puffiness from the drugs, and you bow your head and try not to care that you're not you and haven't been for a long time.

When you raise your head, the test is ready.

The result is still positive.

So this is what it's like to really live in hell.

Well, you've got to face it, haven't you? You can't just loll around anymore. If this is the final chance, you've got a reason to keep going. Life is not a tiring exercise; a treadmill that never stops. But you can't help but feel like a container for Mark's baby; a final test, to see if you can perform your part and be the good wife, even though you know it – he's never ever wanted that from you.

You lean over, feeling the bile rise in your throat, and vomit into the stained toilet bowl, feeling your stomach contract horribly and your hair fall to the sides of your face. Why can't you be done? Why is it that it seems like this is more of just the same old shit?

The test sits on the sink and you suddenly knock it to the floor; you clench your fists and you open your mouth in a hoarse scream, trying to break through it all, break through the chains that hold you and the hope that's so hot in your chest that it's like it's on fire, that pulsing orb that's your broken heart, jagged against the bone.

And then you catch sight of yourself in the mirror; you catch sight of the almost-black eyes and the bloodied hands where your nails dug in, and you crumple. Is this you? Is this what you're doomed to always be? Because you failed?

There's a saying that's always irked you: "Love the moment. Flowers grow out of dark moments. Therefore, each moment is vital. It affects the whole. Life is a succession of such moments and to live each, is to succeed." You would laugh derisively; you would turn back to your scientifically-made miracles and revel in your success because you made it so. It was you and it was no one else; you worked hard and that's why you succeeded.

And then in this dark moment, the flower grows. Because it suddenly strikes you that you don't need to live this way. Sometimes these things happen. And sometimes, it's okay to admit defeat. And this is what is missing in your marriage with Mark.

You've been fighting so hard to save it that you crushed the rose that it was. You wanted to win and there was really no game to play.

Before you leave the bathroom, you take a moment to wash your hands, splash your face with water and adjust your hair. When you look up at yourself again, you try a small smile, and are amazed to see the rose bloom back into your pale cheeks.

_Mission Street is alive at every hour_

_Like I've never been and feared I may not ever be_

_A light so steady on the mountains in the distance_

_Solitude so deep it might awaken me_

The highway lights up before you; it's silver under the moon and you roll down the window to try the effect of fresh air on your psyche. It does clear your head. The two hours home are faster than anytime has been these last six months.

Pulling into the driveway, you lean against the car door for a moment and listen to the tinkling that signifies the Mercedes is cooling down; the sound of the traffic behind the quiet neighbourhood and the wind in the trees. It's not often that stars are visible in the springtime, no less the moon, but strange things happen when you're not paying attention and you know yourself, sometimes the beauty is incongruous to the situation.

The wind traces your hair back from your face when you slide your key in the lock, and despite the royal fuck-up your life is currently representing, you smile, anyway, at the feeling of the gentleness of strands brushing your cheeks.

It's dark; Mark never bothers with lights when you're not home. You used to tease him about that and he'd grin and tease you back about not being environmentally-friendly, but the truth is, he's comfortable with the dark. And when you step into the den, he's got the hockey game on, flickering on his face, but he's not paying attention to it. When you step closer, it's clear that he's been crying.

"Mark?" Your voice falls on the air, a bit scratchy, but otherwise clear, and his head turns towards you, expressionless. He doesn't say anything.

"Mark . . ." You drop your coat in the doorway of the room and cradle your arms to your chest in the sudden chill. "I'm sorry."

He doesn't reply. You blink in the artificial TV light, try again.

"I left, I shouldn't have done it, and I feel bad for making you worry. I was wrong, okay. I was wrong about it all and I want to save this. I don't want you to hate me. I want us to be okay and I want us to be the family in the window carving turkey dinner and feeding ice cream to the baby, okay. I want us to be those people. I want us to turn on the light."

He studies you; he studies your face, your thin arms and the way you stand awkwardly before him, knock-kneed and shaking, and he sighs, the barest hint of breath.

You press on. "I know that you cared more than anyone else. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you." Your voice drops. "I love you. I love you and I don't blame you. I blame myself."

He shifts on the couch and his face softens, then he's up and he's got you; you lick your lips and feel the tears soak into his shoulder and your hair fall across his shirt, and he kisses your hair and your face and your tears, all of your hurt and he takes it all.

"You came back," is all he says, and you nod against his chest. "Yeah."

"I wasn't mad at you, Addison," he whispers. "I just thought I'd lost you."

"You almost did," you whisper back, but he crushes the thoughts in the embrace and you lay against his chest to hear his heart and his shaky breathing, so relieved and so shocked, so desperately happy that you didn't leave him to take your own life somewhere.

_Well my hands are cold tonight_

_But the sky is bright with stars_

_And I'm tearing through the veil that keeps me blind_

_And it seems the more I'm wrong_

_The more that I am right_

"I'm pregnant," you whisper, and he stiffens for a moment, his back so straight, so still.

And then you feel his tears in your hair; his chest heaves and you know he feels what you feel; maybe this fifth chance isn't hell. Maybe it's more than that.

Maybe, just maybe, it's the flower in the dark. The pale blossom of hope that means it's time to heal.

Maybe it's time to come out of the darkness.

_The more that I am right._


	12. Chapter 12

The breezy day, well, it's the type of day when soft things happen

The breezy day, well, it's the type of day when soft things happen. It doesn't mean that it's not important. It doesn't mean that just because the world is pastel and the wind is soft and the sunshine is in that mode between bright and warm that it's a day to write off; one of those cotton-candy days that you remember vaguely, but only in light and sound and the scent of flowers on the air. Maybe you can feel the sunshine on the back of your neck; maybe you remember a smile in the light. But what's important about days like this is that they're the type of days that you can stockpile for the times when you can't remember what spring feels like. And that's the kind of day it is today.

You turn and your hair blows with you; and he grins at you as he gets out of the car and smooths down his jacket nervously. It's been months since you've been to mass, and you can read his mind: "Will they know if I miss a word of the liturgy? Will they turn and look if I'm not singing?" But in the end, you know, it doesn't really matter. What matters is you're here. And you've got mass to go to.

And in your arms, she stirs a little; her eyes flutter and you touch a corner of her bonnet to protect her skin from the soft sun. Because it's taken so much to get her here. And the mass today, well. It's more than the general Sunday church service that's a duty rather than an experience.

Today, it's all for her.

_I don't know you_

_But I want you_

_All the more for that_

Amid layers of christening dress, she's quite comfortable as long as no one tries to take her from your arms. And there are a lot of people who would try it; she's just as much their baby as she is yours. But five times was really the charm, here, and no one blames you for being a little bit possessive. No one blames you for wanting to hold her as long as you can, to touch her cheek and kiss her hair. No one blames you at all.

It's been a year since the incident on the highway. A year of watching your belly grow bigger and clasping Mark's hand until your fingers turned white every time she kicked. It's been eight months of barely breathing; of avoiding sushi and grabbing the railings of stairs. It's been a year of therapy and of a husband who stood in the background, but never minded, because this was something bigger than you. This was something that could be a miracle.

You started to show at month four. You were already three months along when Mark found out. He went out the next day and got a glass bowl of tulips, all different colours and sizes, all in different stages of bloom. And then he took a red tulip and traced it over your belly, smiling, so gentle and without any cynicism at all. The tiny bump, the barely-there roundness on your flat stomach – he'd bowed his head, tried to listen, hear the heartbeat that you knew was there but that you couldn't hear yet.

"Addison."

You'd placed your cold hand on his and he'd looked up into your eyes. "It's not going to be that way. Not this time."

And breathing, barely breathing, you'd whispered, "How do you know?"

He'd lowered his head, you ran your fingers through hair that was greyer now than it had been six months ago, and nothing was said, not for a long time.

When you started to cry, he'd cupped your cheeks and kissed your tears, and whispered, "It's not going to happen five times. It's not."

And unlike any other time in your entire marriage, you just believed him.

"Okay."

_Words fall through me_

_And always fool me_

_And I can't react_

_And games that never amount_

_To more than they're meant_

_Will play themselves out_

The morning sickness was hell – it was morning, noon and night sickness, of the sort that you could barely control. Surgery consisted of you easing from aching foot to aching foot and running out of the room at least five times during a three-hour procedure. But you continued like always, saying nothing, although the penetrating eyes knew and tried to catch yours in hallways, in exam rooms. You said nothing.

The fifth month, you lay in the examination room and clenched your hands desperately by your sides. The flutters of movement – the tiny butterfly. It was unreal that you could have made it this far. It was unreal that you could make it this far. And you found yourself making quick calculations – how viable is a baby if there's spontaneous abortion, now?

Before the ultrasound technician came in, Mark grabbed one of your clenched hands and shook his head, sharply, even a little defiantly.

"Stop this."

"Stop what?" Your voice was ragged, sharp with edges of anxiety that had come back after you took yourself off the SSRIs, for fear of harm – because you damn well would not be responsible for one more hurt, broken fetus; wouldn't be responsible for any complications of this fucking pregnancy.

"Stop obsessing. Stop calculating." His voice softened. "Addison. Don't overthink this. Don't."

And you flared a little; was he challenging you? "Listen here, Mark Sloan. Until you grow a uterus and can carry a child, don't you ever –"

"I know, tell you what to do." His eyes met yours. "I need to. Because you're not telling you what to do here. It's going into autopilot and you would be the first person to tell a woman that pregnancy should be a special time."

You'd gulped. "It is. It's . . . unreal. It's supposed to be unlike anything you've experienced." And then you raised a hand to your face, because it is. It's all of those things and it feels so stolen, so ticking-time-bomb.

He wrapped his arms around you; you pressed your face into his rough scrubs and his hands found your hair. And then, he said, "It's yours, Addie. It's okay."

"It's yours, too."

"Yeah. It's okay."

/

When you see her face on the ultrasound; her pointed little nose, the thumb in her mouth and the way her fist is clenched, just like yours, you smile tentatively and Mark smiles back.

"It's a girl."

The ultrasound technician nods and smiles. "You'd know that, Dr. Montgomery. She got a name?"

You sigh deeply, and look up at her. "No. Not yet."

You're lying through your teeth, but why jinx it when it's going so well?

_Take this sinking boat and point it home_

_We've still got time_

_Raise your hopeful voice - you have a choice_

_You've made it now_

You get unwieldy. You have to shift your weight back to your heels and you can't stand all day in surgery. But you and Mark spend hours balancing various chips, popcorn, and candy on your belly. And like a charm, every time – she kicks and it flies off. And then you laugh stupidly while "Friends" is on and it's all so ridiculous perfect.

Mark is quieter; he's more introspective. He makes his famous Alfredo pasta while you sit at the table and admire the curve of his shoulders in the old soft Yankees T-shirt that he treasures and wears to every game. But lately you haven't heard him chatter; you haven't heard him say anything at all.

She kicks, once, twice, and you put a hand on your stomach, watching it roll back and forth as the baby tries to get a better position. And then Mark drops the spoon.

"Fuck!"

You're up; he's running his hand under the cold water tap and his face is set, hard.

You pause before you touch him. "Mark?"

"It's all so fucking perfect, Addie, and I can't get the bad feeling out of my head," he snaps without preamble, and you know that he's not talking about the Alfredo sauce. And it's strange, seeing him as the one who breaks down; the one who admits worry. Because Mark Sloan was never one to complain or to let on how he felt. And now, as you put your arms around him, and she lies between you, the little butterfly of life inquisitively touching the warmth she feels against her sanctuary, he smiles again.

"I'm being stupid."

"No." You kiss him; your lips press against his and he pulls you closer to him. You stay that way for awhile, until the smoke alarm goes off and the smell of burnt milk pervades the kitchen, and then he finally raises his head.

"This time is going to work."

"It's going to work, Mark."

_Falling slowly, eyes that know me_

_And I can't go back_

_Moods that take me and erase me_

_And I'm painted black_

_You have suffered enough_

_And warred with yourself_

_It's time that you won_

Naomi twirls a straw wrapper in her hands; you're sitting in a café and you keep shifting uncomfortably. She's enjoying the feel of the soft breeze on her face, and she barely notices when you put a hand to your abdomen.

"Ow. Jellybean, calm down."

Jellybean became the nickname; you've chosen a name, but you're slightly superstitious and despite everyone asking you about it, you refuse to tell them.

Naomi's face changes from absent to concerned. "Addie. Are you okay, girl?" She puts a hand on your shoulder. "Braxton-Hicks?"

You didn't recognize the back pain as labour, but now that the next contraction starts, you realize that it very well could be. "It's a few weeks early."

"Ha." Naomi shoots you a knowing look and you concede, nodding. "Yeah, like that makes a difference."

When you stand up, your water breaks. "Oh, shit."

Naomi shoots you a look. "Either you just peed your pants or . . ."

"Or we're going to have a birthday today or tomorrow." You pull out your cell phone, but Nae snatches it from your hands and speed-dials Mark. "Sit the hell down."

When he pulls up, your contractions are timed at seven minutes apart, thirty seconds in length. He doesn't say anything and neither do you, but you shoot a look at him in the rearview mirror on the way to the hospital and he meets your eyes, for a brief second.

You realize you're not scared anymore.

_Take this sinking boat and point it home_

_We've still got time_

_Raise your hopeful voice you had a choice_

_You've made it now_

Alexa Elizabeth Montgomery-Sloan; six pounds, five ounces, and twenty-one inches long, sleeps in bed with you.

It wasn't your choice; it was hers. And despite the fact that you've tried to break her to the crib; you've done the conventional things like rocking her and nursing her and letting her fall asleep in her baby swing, she refuses to sleep anywhere but curled up right against you, her little face turned into your chest, your arm cradling her closely. And Mark, who went through a "what if SIDS happens" scare, has finally just learned to accept it. It's a king-size bed.

And what the hell. You hear her every move; her every breath echoes in your dreams. You can't have someone share your body for nine months (okay, eight and a half) and not know her inside out; not see your eyes in hers and Mark's nose on her face and the exact shape of your fingernails on each of her tiny hands.

It was like a dream; her hair is too downy to show up on her blue-veined head, but you argue with Mark whether it's brown or it's red (he votes red). Her eyes have the blue depths of yours but the shape of Mark's. She's long-bodied like you; Mark keeps measuring her with a carpenter's measuring tape that snaps back on his hands and causes you to laugh, but she's yours and Mark's, totally.

She has a serious, observant look; she watches leaves flutter to the ground and birds in the sky with her ageless blue eyes and you almost wonder if this is the same baby who screams for five hours a night and causes cracked nipples and has already ruined three of the pretty outfits she was given by Auntie Naomi and Uncle Sam with poop and spit-up. Because she's not a perfect baby, but you wouldn't trade her for the world.

_Take this sinking boat and point it home_

_We've still got time_

_Raise your hopeful voice you had a choice_

_You've made it now_

And today, in this church, with the dust motes high in the clerestory and the congregation rapt and waiting while the priest holds Alexa and strokes oil onto her soft forehead, it's almost still like a dream. The last year and a half; the dark times in the bedroom under the covers; the wandering blindly down black streets; the highway drive that seemed to take half a lifetime; it's all replaced when her face crinkles in a needy cry or when she waves a fist at you, your eyes following her every move.

But it's not gone. It's just behind. And Derek stands with Naomi as godparents; they know how you couldn't look your husband in the eye – they know how you feared and loved this pregnancy, a dichotomy that made no sense but yet was the way of it for months.

But he takes your hand; he steps forward and you make the promises, to raise her in the church; to raise her in the light.

It's no longer feared. A sunbeam jumps down through the jeweled window, lights up her white dress and the image of her hand on your collar, and there can't be the amount of darkness there was with this tiny shard of light.

She's there, now. Not the saviour; not the miracle child. But the tiny star, so dark and bright in the glowing sky, creating the hope that you can rebuild on.

She is the new beginning.

_Falling slowly, sing your melody_

_I'll sing along_

_You've made it now._


End file.
